When, prompted by a mother's care, Thy warmth shall form the' imprison'd young, The pleasing task I'll gladly share,

Or cheer thy labours with a song.

To bring thee food I'll range the fields,

And cull the best of

every kind, Whatever Nature's bounty yields, And Love's assiduous care can find.

And when my lovely mate would stray,
To taste the summer sweets at large,
I'll wait at home the livelong day,
And fondly tend our little charge.

Then prove with me the sweets of love,
With me divide the cares of life,

No bush shall boast, in all the grove,
A mate so fond, so bless'd a wife!'

He ceased his song-the plumy dame
Heard with delight the lovesick strain,
Nor long conceal'd a mutual flame,
Nor long repress'd his amorous pain.

He led her to the nuptial bower,

And perch'd with triumph by her side;
What gilded roof could boast that hour
A fonder mate, or happier bride?

Next morn he waked her with a song,
Behold (he said) the new-born day,

The Lark his matin peal has rung;

Arise, my love, and come away!'

Together through the fields they stray'd, And to the murmuring rivulet's side; Renew'd their vows, and hopp'd, and play'd, With artless joy and decent pride.

When O! with grief my Muse relates
What dire misfortune closed the tale;
Sent by an order from the Fates,
A gunner met them in the vale.

Alarm'd, the lover cried, My dear,
Haste, haste away; from danger fly;
Here, gunner, point thy thunder here;
O spare my love, and let me die!'

At him the gunner took his aim,
Too sure the volley'd thunder flew!
O had he chose some other game,
Or shot-as he was wont to do!

Divided pair! forgive the wrong,
While I with tears your fate rehearse,
I'll join the widow's plaintive song,

And save the Lover in my verse.

THE GOLDFINCHES.

AN ELEGY.

To William Shenstone, Esq.

Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

To

To

you whose groves protect the feather'd choirs, Who lend their artless notes a willing ear, you whom pity moves and taste inspires, The doric strain belongs, O Shenstone! hear.

"Twas gentle Spring, when all the plumy race

By Nature taught in nuptial leagues combine, A Goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace, And with her mate in Love's delights to join.

All in a garden, on a currant bush,

With wondrous art they built their airy seat; In the next orchard lived a friendly Thrush,

Nor distant far a Woodlark's soft retreat.

Here bless'd with ease, and in each other bless'd, With early songs they waked the neighbouring

groves,

Till time matured their joys, and crown'd their nest With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt the' allotted food?
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last?
How does the fairest purpose often fail!
A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast
Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to
wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he,

No generous precept ever touch'd his heart, With concord false and hideous prosody

He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On mischief bent, he mark'd with ravenous eyes Where wrapp'd in down the callow songsters lay, Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize, And bore it in his impious hands away!

But how shall I describe, in numbers rude, The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed, When from her secret stand aghast she view'd The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed?

O grief of griefs! (with shrieking voice she cried) What sight is this, that I have lived to see! O! that I had in youth's fair season died, From Love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.

Was it for this, alas! with weary bill, Was it for this I poised the' unwieldy straw? For this I bore the moss from yonder hill,

Nor shunn'd the ponderous stick along to draw?

Was it for this I pick'd the wool with care, Intent with nicer skill our work to crown? For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair, And lined our cradle with the thistle's down?

Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,

And ceased to rove at large from plain to plain? For this I sat at home whole days confined, To bear the scorching heat and pealing rain?

Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim? For this the roses on my cheek turn pale? Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim; And all my wonted mirth and spirits fail.

O plunderer vile! O more than adders fell! More murderous than the cat, with prudish face; Fiercer than kites in whom the furies dwell, And thievish as the cuckoo's pilfering race.

May juicy plums for thee forbear to grow, For thee no flower unveil its charming dyes; May birch trees thrive to work thee sharper woe, And listening starlings mock thy frantic eries!'

Thus sang the mournful bird her piteous tale, The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd; Then side by side they sought the distant vale, And there in secret sadness inly mourn'd.