THE green-house is my summer seat; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song, Had been their mutual solace long, Liv'd happy pris'ners there. They sang, as blithe as finches sing, But nature works in ev'ry breast, The open windows seem'd to' invite The freeman to a farewell flight; But Tom was still confin'd; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too gen'rous and sincere, To leave his friend behind. So settling on his cage, by play, Nor would he quit that chosen stand, Oh ye, who never taste the joys Blush, when I tell you how a bird, THE NEEDLESS ALARM. A TALE. THERE is a field, through which I often pass, Nor yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, But corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The Sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on Heav'ns topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Sheep graz'd the field; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq. Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it round again; But, recollecting with a sudden thought, That flight in circles urg'd advanc'd them nought, They gather'd close around the old pit's brink, And thought again-but knew not what to think. The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in ev'ry thing that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought, when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flow'rs rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of ev'ry locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name, That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; He spells them true by intuition's light, This truth premis'd was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next. Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face, Thou hadst suppos'd them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin❜d, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; |