INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. SWEET bird, whom the winter constrainsAnd seldom another it canTo 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.

If a few, (to few 'tis given,)
Lingering on this earthly stage,
Creep and halt with steps uneven,
To the period of an age;

Wherefore live they, but to see
Cunning, arrogance, and force,
Sights lamented much by thee,
Holding their accustom'd course?

Oft was seen, in ages past,

All that we with wonder view; Often shall be to the last;

Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate; content,

Should propitious Heaven design

Life for us, as calmly spent,

Though but half the length of thine.

THE CAUSE WON.

Two neighbours furiously dispute ;
A field-the subject of the suit.
Trivial the spot, yet such the rage
With which the combatants engage,
"Twere hard to tell, who covets most
The prize at whatsoever cost.

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice;
No single word but has its price:
No term but yields some fair pretence

For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name,
Which he, that bore it, may disclaim;
Since both, in one description blended,
Are plaintiffs-when the suit is ended.

THE SILK-WORM.

THE beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry-leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though, till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.

That hour arrived, his work begins;

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins; Till circle upon circle wound

Careless around him and around,

Conceals him with a veil, though slight,

Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task:

And, though a worm, when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,

When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;