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Must be decided by the worth
Of that, which called his ardour forth:
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or discontent; ·
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curse;
But he, whom ev'n in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well designed;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun 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.


The green-house is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoyed the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang, as blithe as finches fing,
That flutter loose on golden wing;

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

And therefore never missed.

But nature works in every breast;. Instinct is never quite suppressed;

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

A pass between his wires.

The open windows seemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell fight;

But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.

For, settling on his grated roof,
He chirped and kiffed him, giving proof

That he desired no more;
Nor would forsake his cage at last,
Till gently seized, I shut him faft,

A prisoner as before.

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

Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a birde
A prison with a friend preferred

To liberty without



There 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,
Reserved to solace many a neighbouring 'squire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rufhy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the fides, but shivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scooped, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.


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Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry gueft, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes, For which, alas ! my destiny fevere, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

The fun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on heaven's 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-raised horn's melodious clang All Kilwick* and all Dingle-derry * rang. Sheep grazed the field; fome with soft bosom

pressed The herb as foft, while nibbling strayed the rest; Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.

* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.

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