With what vermin else infest
Ev'ry dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,

Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Their's is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd and shrill and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play;

Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.

Wretched man, whose years are spent

In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,

Half a span, compar'd with thee.

THE PARROT

IN painted plumes superbly drest,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow tost;

Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store-
A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon 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.

Sweet Poll! his doating mistress cries,

Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,

And calls aloud for sack.

She next instructs him in the kiss; "Tis now a little one, like Miss,

And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears;
And, list'ning close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound;

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6

12

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But soon articulates aloud,

Much to th' amusement of the crowd,

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And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice
His hum'rous talent next employs-
He scolds and gives the lie.

And now he sings, and now is sick
Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick;
Poor Poll is like to die!

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with such a well match'd pair,
The language and the tone,
Each character in ev'ry part

Sustain'd with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.

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ON THE PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD

SWEET babe, whose image here express'd

Does thy peaceful slumbers show;

Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,

Never did thy spirit know.

Soothing slumbers, soft repose,
Such as mock the painter's skill,
Such as innocence bestows,

Harmless infant, lull thee still!

THE THRACIAN

THRACIAN parents, at his birth,

Mourn their babe with many a tear,

But with undissembled mirth

Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn
"O the savages!" exclaim,
"Whether they rejoice or mourn,
Well entitled to the name!"

But the cause of this concern

And this pleasure, would they trace,

Even they might somewhat learn

From the savages of Thrace.

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RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY
LAW OF NATURE

ANDROCLES from his injur'd lord, in dread
Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled.

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Tir'd with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat.
But scarce had giv'n to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs chang'd,—arriv'd within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implor'd from whom he saw;
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dar'd not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown at length, inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wip'd the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day.
Regales his inmate with the parted prey:
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepar'd,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shar'd.
But thus to live-still lost, sequester'd still --
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill.
Home, native home!—Oh might he but repair!
He must, he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands !
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purpos'd prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And soften'd by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze;

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But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is nat'ral :-nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

A MANUAL

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE THERE is a book, which we may call

(Its excellence is such) Alone a library, tho' small;

The ladies thumb it much..

15 flood Hayley (1803).

Words none, things num'rous it contains:
And, things with words compar'd,

Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?

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Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;

And open'd, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,
Adorns its outer part;

But all within 'tis richly lin'd,

A magazine of art.

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The whitest hands that secret hoard

Preserve it in their bosoms stor'd,

Oft visit; and the fair

As with a miser's care.

Thence implements of ev'ry size,
And form'd for various use,

(They need but to consult their eyes)
They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,

A sort most needed by the blind,

Or nearly such from age.

The full-charg'd leaf, which next ensues,
Presents in bright array

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The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.

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The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,

Oh! what a fund of genius, pent
In narrow space, is here!

This volume's method and intent
How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss

Or pos'd, whoever reads;

No commentator's tedious gloss,

Nor even index needs.

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Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!
No book is treasur'd there,
Nor yet in Granta's num'rous store,
That may with this compare.

No!--Rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen,

Or that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.

AN ENIGMA

A NEEDLE small, as small can be,
In bulk and use, surpasses me,

Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for nought,
As many of my kind are bought

As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procur'd at little cost,

The labour is not light,

Nor few artificers it asks,

All skilful in their sev'ral tasks,
To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire,

A second draws it into wire,

The shears another plies,

Who clips in lengths the brazen thread
For him, who, chafing every shred,

Gives all an equal size.

A fifth prepares, exact and round,

The knob, with which it must be crown'd;

His follower makes it fast,

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And with his mallet and his file

To shape the point, employs awhile
The seventh and the last.

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Now therefore, Edipus! declare

What creature, wonderful and rare,
A process, that obtains

Its purpose with so much ado,

At last produces!--Tell me true,
And take me for your pains!

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