« AnteriorContinuar »
'Tis clear that they were always able
It chanc'd then on a winter's day,
My friends! be cautious how ye treat
A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,
Methinks the gentleman, quoth she,
Dick hcard, and tweedling, ogliny, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sideling,
Attested, glad, liis approbation
But though the birds were thus in haste,
Misses! the tale that I relate
This lesson seenis to carry
But proper time, to inarry.
TIE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent lide,
I wander'd on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his raco,
And high in pedigree, ('T'wo nymphis* adorn'd with ev'ry grace
That spaniel found for me.)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and recds,
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse display'd
His lilies newly blown;
And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended for I souglit
To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escap'd my eager hand.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau trotting far beforc,
And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swiin to meet
The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall inortify the pride
Of man's superiour brecd :
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To him who gives me all.
THE POET, TIIE OYSTER
AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded.
Ah, hapless wretch ! condemned to dwell
Wher, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants callid sensitive grow thera? No matter when--a poet's muse is, To inake them grow just where she choosos
You shapeless nothing in a disli, You that are but almost a fish, I scorn your coarse insinuation, And have most plentiful occasion, To wish myself the rock I view, Or such another dolt as you: For many a gravo and learned clerk, A many a gay unletter'd spark, With curious touch examines mo, If I can feel as well as he ; And when I bend, retire, and shrink, Says Well, 'tis more than one would think ! This life is spent, (oh fie upon't !) In being touch'd, and crying-Don't !
A poet in his ev'ning walk, O'erheard, and check'd this idle talk