The GOLDFINCHES. An Elegy.

T

By Mr. JAGO.

Ingenuas didiciffe fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec finit effe feros.

you, whofe

groves protect the feather'd quires,

Who lend their artless notes a willing ear, To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,

The Doric strain belongs; O Shenstone, hear.

'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race,
By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine:
A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,
And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

Through Nature's fpacious walks at large they rang'd,
No fettled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
Themselves, in every vary'd scene, the fame.

'Till on a day to weighty cares resign'd,

With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,

But fettle foberly, and raise a breed.

All

All in a garden, on a currant-bush,

With wond'rous art they built their waving feat:

In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor diftant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here bleft with ease, and in each other bleft,

With early fongs they wak'd the sprightly groves, 'Till time matur'd their blifs, and crown'd their neft With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,

And future fonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can laft?
How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant-school-boy's wantonnefs could blast
Their rifing hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;

No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart: With concords falfe, and hideous profody

He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On

On barb'rous plunder bent, with savage eye

He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay, Then rushing feiz'd the wretched family,

And bore them in his impious hands away.

But how fhall I relate in numbers rude

The pangs for poor* Chryfomitris decreed! When from a neighb'ring spray aghast she view'd The favage ruffian's inaufpicious deed!'

So wrapt in grief fome heart-ftruck matron ftands, While horrid flames furround her children's room! On heav'n fhe calls, and wrings her trembling hands, Constrain'd to fee, but not prevent their doom.

“O grief of griefs! with fhrieking voice the cry'd, "What fight is this that I have liv'd to see ? "O! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died, "From love's falfe joys, and bitter forrows free!

Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,

"Was it for this, I pois'd th' unwieldy straw? "For this I pick'd the mofs from yonder hill? "Nor fhun'd the pond'rous chat along to draw? Chryfomitris, it seems, is the name for a goldfinch.

"Was

"Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care;

"And ftrove with all my skill our work to crown? "For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair; "And lin'd our cradle with the thiftle's down?

"Was it for this my freedom I refign'd;

"And ceas'd to rove from beauteous plain to plain? "For this I fate at home whole days confin'd,

"And bore the fcorching heat, and pealing rain?

"Was it for this, my watchful eyes grow dim?
"The crimson roses on my cheek turn pale?
"Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim;
"And all my wonted fpirits 'gin to fail.

"O plund'rer vile! O more than weezel fell!

"More treach'rous than the cat with prudifh face! "More fierce than kites with whom the furies dwell! "More pilf'ring than the cuckow's prowling race!

"For thee may plumb or goofb'ry never grow,
"No juicy currant cool thy clammy throat:
"But bloody birch-twigs work thee shameful woe,
"Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note.

Thus

Thus fang the mournful bird her piteous tale,

The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd: Then fide by fide they fought the distant vale, And there in filent sadness inly mourn'd.

{*}*<*>X<{*}:X:«*}:X{*}X{*}X{*}]

The BLACKBIRDS. An Elegy.

T

By the Same.

HE fun had chas'd the mountain fnow,
And kindly loos'd the frozen foil,

The melting streams began to flow,
And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil.

'Twas then, amid the vocal throng
Whom nature wakes to mirth and love,
A blackbird rais'd his am'rous fong,
And thus it echo'd through the grove,

O fairest of the feather'd train!

For whom I fing, for whom I burn,
Attend with pity to my strain,

And grant my love a kind return.

For