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Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

Logan.

THE BLACKBIRDS.

THE Sun had chas'd the mountain snow,
And kindly loos'd the frozen soil,
The melting streams began to flow,
And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil.

'Twas then, amid the vocal throng
Whom Nature wakes to mirth and love,
A blackbird rais'd his am'rous song,
And thus it echo'd through the grove.

'O fairest of the feather'd train!
For whom I sing, for whom I burn,
Attend with pity to my strain,
And grant my love a kind return.

'For see the wintry storms are flown,
And gentle zephyrs fan the air;
Let us the genial influence own,
Let us the vernal pastime share.

'The raven plumes his jetty wing
To please his croaking paramour;
The larks responsive ditties sing,
And tell their passion as they soar.

'But trust me, love, the raven's wing Is not to be compar'd with mine; Nor can the lark so sweetly sing

As I, who strength with sweetness join.

'O! let me all thy steps attend!

I'll point new treasures to thy sight;
Whether the grove thy wish befriend,
Or hedge-rows green, or meadows bright.

'I'll show my love the clearest rill
Whose streams among the pebbles stray,
These will we sip, and sip our fill,
Or on the flow'ry margin play.

'I'll lead her to the thickest brake,
Impervious to the school-boy's eye;
For her the plaster'd nest I'll make,
And on her downy pinions lie.

'When, prompted by a mother's care,

Her warmth shall form th' imprison'd young;

The pleasing task I'll gladly share,

Or cheer her labours with my song.

"To bring her food I'll range the fields, And cull the best of every kind; Whatever nature's bounty yields,

And love's assiduous care can find.

'And when my lovely mate would stray
To taste the summer sweets at large,
I'll wait at home the live-long day,
And tend with care our little charge.

'Then prove with me the sweets of love,
With me divide the cares of life;
No bush shall boast in all the grove
So fond a mate, so bless'd a wife.'

He ceas'd his song. The melting dame
With soft indulgence heard the strain;
She felt, she own'd a mutual flame,
And hasted to relieve his pain.

He led her to the nuptial bower,
And nestled closely to her side;
The fondest bridegroom of that hour,
And she, the most delighted bride.

Next morn he wak'd her with a song,
'Behold,' he said, 'the new-born day!

The lark his matin peal has rung,
Arise, my love, and come away.'

Together through the fields they stray'd,
And to the murm'ring riv'let's side;
Renew'd their vows, and hopp'd and play'd,
With honest joy and decent pride.

When oh! with grief the Muse relates
The mournful sequel of my tale;
Sent by an order from the Fates,
A gunner met them in the vale.

VOL. II.

LL

Alarm'd, the lover cry'd, 'My dear,
Haste, haste away, from danger fly;
Here, gunner, point thy thunder bere;
O spare my love, and let me die.'

At him the gunner took his aim;

His aim, alas! was all too true; O! had he chose some other game! Or shot-as he was wont to do!

Divided pair! forgive the wrong,
While I with tears your fate rehearse;
I'll join the widow's plaintive song,
And save the lover in my verse.

Jago.

THE DYING KID.

A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring and flowery mead
Must in his prime of life recede!

Erewhile, in sportive circles round

She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell,
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood

To trace his features in the flood,
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care,
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.—

But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies?
While violence and craft succeed,
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name and Strephon's love.

No more those bow'rs might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.

Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care,
And when they left his ebbing vein,
What but insipid age remain?

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