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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 !

SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED

IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

None ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome,
Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell,
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeather'd brood;
And oft as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,
Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around,
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call.

Arrived, the pensionary band,
Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive,
The sprinkled, plenteous donative.
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge ;
A single doit would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place?

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

As in her ancient mistress' lap

The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,

Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,

And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm,

Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,

She shakes her to the ground With many a threat, that she shall bleed

With still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest ;

It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest,

Should bear a kitten's joke.

INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains

And seldom another it can-
To seek a retreat, while he reigns,

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man,
Who never can seem to intrude,

Though in all places equally free, Come! oft as the season is rude,

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. At sight of the first feeble ray,

That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee every day

My windows shall show thee a feast; For, taught by experience I know

Thee mindful of benefit long, And that, thankful for all I bestow,

Thou wilt pay me with many a song. Then, soon as the swell of the buds

Bespeaks the renewal of spring, Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,

Or where it shall please thee to sing : And shouldst thou, compell’d by a frost,

Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay, as thou pay’dst me before. Thus music must needs be confest

To flow from a fountain above; Else how should it work in the breast

Unchangeable friendship and love ?

And who on the globe can be found,

Save your generation and ours, That can be delighted by sound,

Or boasts any musical powers ?

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel

Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,

The numbers, echoed note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before

A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
And soon (for various was his tuneful store)

In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dared the task, and rising, as he rose,

With all the force, that passion gives, inspired, Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close,

Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill, prevail'd. O fatal strife,

By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun! And O sad victory, which cost thy life,

And he may wish that he had never won!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER

BIRTHDAY, 1728.

ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast,

To a race like ours appears, Rounded to an orb at last,

All thy multitude of years! We, the herd of human kind,

Frailer and of feebler powers ; We, to narrow bounds confined,

Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet, we

Perish even from the womb, Swifter than a shadow flee,

Nourish’d, but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease

Lurk in all that we enjoy ; Some, that waste us by degrees,

Some, that suddenly destroy.

And if life o'erleap the bourn,

Common to the sons of men, What remains, but that we mourn,

Dream, and dote, and drivel then ?

Fast as moons can wax and wane,

Sorrow comes; and while we groan, Pant with anguish and complain,

Half our years are fled and gone.

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