Within that cavity aloft,

Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor; With russet specks bedightThe vessel weighs, forsakes the shore And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea

As she had chang'd her kind; But goes the male? Far wiser, he Is doubtless left behind?

No-soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love.

Then perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,

The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.

The seaman with sincere delight,
His feather'd shipmates eyes,

Scarce lest exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new,
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!"

Hail honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,

Yet parent of this loving pair

Whom nothing could divide.

And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,

Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with Man.

For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and wo.

Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!

This Tale is founded on an article of intelligence which the Author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words.

GLASGOW, May 23.

mast of

In a block, or pulley, near the head of the a gabert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food.

ΤΟ

WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ,

[June 29, 1793.]

DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!

O for permission from the skies to share,

Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on other's lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise ›

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise

ON

A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,

KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

[July 15, 1793.]

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chas'd with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.

BEAU'S REPLY.

SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed-
"Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventur'd once to break,
(As you, perhaps, may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,

Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destin'd to my tooth,

I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggriev'd Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime, --
(Which I can hardly see,)

What think you, Sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me?