ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. YE Nymphs, if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, Oh share Maria's grief! Her favorite, even in his cage Where Rhenus strays his vines among The honors of his ebon poll With which Aurora decks the skies, Above, below, in all the house, Just then, by adverse fate impressed, For, aided both by ear and scent, He left poor Bully's beak. Oh, had he made that too his prey! ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. [Written when the news arrived.] TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humor interposed too often makes; 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.1 TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well nigh past, Thy spirits have a fainter flow, Thy needles, once a shining store, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast THE CASTAWAY. No braver chief could Albion boast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. |