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Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's reft;

In fleep he seem'd to view

A rat, faft-clinging to the cage,
And screaming at the fad presage,
Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went-
Ah, Muse! forbear to speak

Minute the horrors that enfued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was woodHe left poor Bully's beak.

He left it but he fhould have ta'en
That beak, whence iffued many a strain
Of fuch mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For filencing fo fweet a throat,
Fast fet within his own.

Maria weeps-The Muses mourn→
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' fide

The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.

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THE rofe had been wash'd, just wash'd in a fhower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it feem'd to a fanciful view,

Το

weep

for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,

For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I fnapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, And the tear that is wip'd with a little addrefs, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS THROCKMORŢon.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wifh'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhime,

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full blifs is blifs divine;

There dwells fome wish in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly 'gild,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I with it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMost dried IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all thofe lucklefs brains,

That, to the wrong fide leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In conftant exhalations:

Why, ftooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, haft thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions denfe and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,
To form an iris in the fkies,
Though black and foul before.

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