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A vicious ohjeet still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curse ;
But þe, whom ev'ni in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design’d ;
And if, e'er he attain his end,
His fun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.

COWPER.

с н А Р.

XXII.

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

TH

'HE 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 folace long,

Liv'd happy there.

They fang, as blithe as finches fing
That Butter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they lift ;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,

And, therefore, never miss'd.

But

But Nature works in ev'ry breast ;
Instinct is never quite suppress'd ;

And Dick felt some defires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.

The open

windows feem'd to invite The freeman to a farewel 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.

For settling on his grated roof,
He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof

That he desir'd no more ;
Nor would forsake his cage at laft,
'Till gently seiz'd, I fut him faft,

A pris'ner as before.

Oh ye, who never knew the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball and rout !
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison, with a friend, preferr'd

To liberty without

Cowper.

СНАР.

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'Tis clear that they were always able
To hold discourse, at least, in fable ;
And ev'n the child, who knows no better,
Than to interpret by the letter,
A story of a cock and bull,
Must have a most uncommon skull,

It chanc'd then, ona winter's day,
But warm and bright, and calm as May,
The birds conceiving a design,
To forestal sweet St. Valentine ;
In many an orchard, copfe and grove,
Assembled on affairs of love,
And with much twitter and much chatter,
Began to agitate the matter.
At length a Bulfinch, who could boast,
More years and wisdom than the most,
Entreated, op'ning wide his beak,
A moment's liberty to speak;
And, filence publicly enjoin’d,
Deliver'd briefly thus his mind.

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be witheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, agaialt the evidence of his seases ?

My

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My friends ! be cautious how ye treat
The subject upon which we meet ;
I fear we shall have winter yet.

A Finch, whose tongue knew no controul,
With golden wing and fattin pole,
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried
What marriage means, thus pert replied.

Methinks the gentleman, quoth the,
Opposite in tlie apple-tree,
By his good will, would keep us fingle
'Till yonder heav'n and earth shall mingle,
Or, (which is likelier to befall)
'Till death exterminate us all.
I marry without more ado,
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ?

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling,
Turning short round, ftrutting and fideling,
Attested, glad, his approbation
Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiment so well express’d,
Influenced mightily the reft,
All pair'd, and each pair built a nest.

But though the birds were thus in haste,
The leaves came on not quite so fast,
And destiny, that sometimes bears
An aspect ftern on man's affairs,
Not altogether fmild on theirs.
The wind, of late breath'd gently forth,
Now shifted east and east by north ;
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
Could shelter them from rain or snow,

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Stepping

Stepping into their neft, they paddled,
Themselves were chill'd their eggs were addled ;
Soon ev'ry father bird and mother
Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other,
Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learn’d, in future, to be wiser,
Than to neglect a good adviser.

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A T A L E.
HERE is a field through which I often pass,

Thick overspread with moss and filky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring 'squire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contufion hazarding of neck or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceald,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field ;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;

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