II.

Belinda's maids are foon preferr'd

To teach him now and then a word,

As Poll can master it;

But 'tis her own important charge

To qualify him more at large,

And make him quite a wit.

III.

Sweet Poll! his doating mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,

And calls aloud for fack,

She next inftructs him in the kiss,

'Tis now a little one like Miss,

And now a hearty smack.

IV.

At first he aims at what he hears

And liftening close with both his ears,

Juft catches at the found;

But foon articulates aloud,

Much to th' amufement of the crowd,

And ftuns the neighbours round.

V.

A querulous old woman's voice

His humorous talent next employs,

He fcolds and gives the lie;

And now he fings, and now is fick,

Here Sally, Sufan, come, come quick,

Poor Poll is like to die.

VI.

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with fuch a well match'd pair,

The language and the tone,

Each character in every part

Suftain'd with fo much

grace

and art,

And both in unifon.

VII.

When children firfl begin to fpell

And ftammer out a fyllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties foon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.

Written in a Time of Affliction.

I.

OH happy fhades! to me unbleft,
Friendly to peace, but not to me,

How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot reft, agree!

II.

This glaffy stream, that fpreading pine,
Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine,
And pleafe, if any thing could please.

But fix'd unalterable care

III.

Foregoes not what fhe feels within, Shows the fame sadness ev'ry where, And flights the season and the scene.

For

IV.

For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

While peace poffefs'd these filent bow'rs,

Her animating fmile withdrawn,

Has loft its beauties and its pow'rs.

V.

The faint or moralist should tread

This mofs grown alley, mufing flow,

They feek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe.

VI.

Me fruitful scenes and profpects waste,
Alike admonifh not to roam,

These tell me of enjoyments past,
And thofe of forrows yet to come.

THE

I.

WHAT nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our ifle,

Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile.

See Mary what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that funny shed,

Where the flow'rs have the charms of the fpring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

II.

Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is ftill in her prime,

A fortrefs to which the retreats,

From the cruel affaults of the clime.

While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay,
As the fairest and sweetest that blow

On the beautiful bofom of May.

See