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, My windows shall show thee a feast; Then, soon as the swell of the buds Or where it shall please thee to sing: Only pay, as thou pay'dst me before. Thus music must needs be confest To flow from a fountain above; 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 And soon (for various was his tuneful store) She dared the task, and rising, as he rose, 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 ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast, Rounded to an orb at last, All thy multitude of years! We, the herd of human kind, Frailer and of feebler powers; Death's delicious banquet, we Seeds of merciless disease Lurk in all that we enjoy; And if life o'erleap the bourn, Fast as moons can wax and wane, If a few, (to few 'tis given,) Wherefore live they, but to see 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 ; The pleadings swell. Words still suffice; For novel and increased expense. Defendant thus becomes a name, THE SILK-WORM. THE beams of April, ere it goes, 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. And, though a worm, when he was lost, When next we see him, wings he wears, |