Louisa gently bow'd her head,

And yet a sigh escaped her breast,
Perhaps the fair one would have said,
She liked the first bright moon the best.

Unknown.

CCCXXVI.

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW.

TELL me not of joy: there's none
Now my little sparrow's gone;
He, just as you

Would toy and woo,

He would chirp and flatter me,
He would hang the wing awhile,
Till at length he saw me smile,
Lord, how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again,
He from my lip

Would moisture sip,

He would from my trencher feed,
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry "Philip " when h' had done,
O whose heart can choose but bleed?

O, how eager would he fight!
And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite:
No morn did pass

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark, and do

What I did now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall,

And then straightway sleek 'em too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may,

Not love convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone.

O let mournful turtles join

With loving red-breasts, and combine

To sing dirges o'er his stone.

William Cartwright.

CCCXXVII.

ON THE DEATH OF MATZEL, A FAVOURITE BULLFINCH.

TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain,
To stop your tears, to hide your pain,
Or check your honest rage;

Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.

Matzel's no more! ye Graces, Loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier;

Let every sorrow be express'd,

Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the natʼral tear.

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,

Who loved thy tuneful notes, shall join

In thy funereal verse;

My painful task shall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.

In height of song, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died—
But vengeance shall have way.
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine
His nine will ill repay.

In vain I loved, in vain I mourn
My bird, who never to return,
Is fled to happier shades,

Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming and most fair
Of all the Elysian glades.

There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love

There shall thy plaintive strain

Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,
And soften Dido's pain.

Till Proserpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant's soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.

'TWAS on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow;

Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared :
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes—
She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed; but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:

Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize,
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd:
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard-
A favourite has no friend!

From hence ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,

Nor all, that glisters, gold.

Thomas Gray.

CCCXXIX.

ON A GOLDFINCH STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,
And of a transient date;

For caught, and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

William Cowper.

CCCXXX.

THE FAITHFUL BIRD.

THE greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast,
Instinct is never quite suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.

The open windows seem'd t' invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;

And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere,
To leave his friend behind.

For, settling on his grated roof,

He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof
That he desired no more;

Nor would forsake his cage at last
Till gently seized I shut him fast,

A prisoner as before.