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And if, ere he attain his end,
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 mútúal solace long,
Liv'd happy pris'ners there.
They sang, as blithe as finches sing,
And frolic where they list ;
And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in ev'ry breast,
And Dick felt some desires,
A pass between his wires.
The open windows scem'd to’invite
But Tom was still confin'd;
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
You must not live alone
Return'd him to his own.
Oh ye, who never taste the joys
Fandango, ball, and rout!
To liberty without.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
THERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Nor yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ; Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away ;
But corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack,
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 Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang.
Sheep graz’d the field; some with soft bosom
press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest ; Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain’d in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appear’d, The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz’d, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz'd,
Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.