« AnteriorContinuar »
MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S
YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,
O share Maria's grief! Her fav'rite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well-taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flagelet or flute.
LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. 283
The honours of his ebon poll
His bosom of the hue,
To sweep away the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large-built and lattic'd well.
Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas!
For Bully's plumage sake,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veild the pole: all seem'd secure:
Subsistence to provide,
284 LADY THROCK MORTON'S BULFINCH.
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, entring at the study-door,
And something in the wind
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress’d,
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, muse! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
cage was wood
LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH, 285
O had he made that too his
prey; That beak whence issu'd many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps—the Muses mourn
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.
The rose had been wash’d, just wash'd in a show'r,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down it's beautiful head.
The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'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 nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with it's owner a while; And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.