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On barb'rous plunder bent, with savage eye
He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay, Then rushing seiz'd the wretched family,
And bore them in his impious hands away.
But how shall I relate in numbers rude
The pangs for poor * Chrysomitris decreed ! When from a neighb'ring spray aghaft she view'd
The favage ruffian's inauspicious deed !
So wrapt in grief some heart-struck matron stands,
While horrid Aames surround her children's room! On heav'n she calls, and wrings her trembling hands,
Constrain’d to fee, but not prevent their doom.
“O grief of griefs ! with shrieking voice she cry'd,
“ What sight is this that I have liv'd to see? “O! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died,
“ From love's false joys, and bitter sorrows 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 moss from yonder hill ?
“ Nor sun'd the pond'rous chat along to draw ? • Chryfomitris, it seems, 'is the name for a goldfinch.
“ Was it for this, I culld the wool with care ;
“ And strove with all my skill our work to crown? “ For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair
“ And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?
“ Was it for this my freedom I resign'd;
“And ceas'd to rove from beauteous plain to plain? “ For this I fate at home whole days confin'd,
“ And bore the scorching 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 fo trim;
“ And all my wonted spirits 'gin to fail.
“O plund'rer vile! O more than weezel fell !
“ More treach’rous than the cat with prudish face ! “ More fierce than kites with whom the furies dwell!
“More pilf’ring than the cuckow's prowling race !
“For thee may plumb or goosb’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 fang the mournful bird her piteous tale,
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd: Then side by side they fought the distant vale,
And there in silent sadness inly mourn'd.
HE sun had chas'd the mountain snow,
And kindly loos'd the frozen soil,
And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil.
'Twas then, amid the vocal throng
Whom nature wakes to mirth and love,
And thus it echo'd through the grove,
O faireft of the feather'd train !
For whom I sing, for whom I burn,
And grant my love a kind return.
For see the wintry storms are flown,
And gentle Zephyrs fan the air ; Let us the genial influence own,
Let us the vernal pastime share.
The raven plumes his jetty wing
To please his croaking paramour; The larks responsive ditties sing,
And tell their passion as they soar.
But trust me, love, the raven's wing
Is not to be compar'd with mine; Nor can the lark so sweetly sing
As I, who strength with sweetness join.
O! let me all thy steps attend !
I'll point new treasures to thy light; Whether the grove thy with befriend,
Or hedge-rows green, or meadows bright.
I'll shew my love the clearest rill
Whose streams among the pebbles stray, These will we fip, and sip our fill,
Or on the flow'ry margin play,
I'll lead her to the thickest brake,
Impervious to the school-boy's eye; For her the plaifter'd nest I'll make,
And on her downy pinions lie.
When prompted by a mother's care,
Her warmth shall form th’ imprison’d young ; The pleasing task I'll gladly share,
Or cheer her labours with my song.
To bring her food I'll range the fields,
And cull the best of every kind; Whatever nature's bounty yields,
And love's affiduous care can find.
And when my lovely mate would stray
To taste the summer sweets at large, I'll wait at home the live-long day,
And tend with care our little charge.
with me the sweets of love, With me divide the cares of life; No bulh shall boast in all the grove
So fond a mate, so blest a wife.