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Where, in his bed of wool and matted leaves,
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun:
He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighbouring beech: there whisks
his brush,

And perks [1] his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud,
With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.

Cowper.

181.-INVITATION TO BIRDS.

Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,
My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,

And weave the mossy nest;
Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.

Amid this cool transparent rill,

That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
Here shews his ruddy face—
Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone
In this sequester'd place.

[1] Perks-raises, tosses up.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings;

The goldfinch dreads no slimy snare
To clog her painted wings.

Sweet nightingale! oh quit thy haunt,
Yon distant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy sadly-pleasing song.

Let not the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come,
And seek a safe asylum here,
With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;
Oh! let me thus your friendship bribe,
Come feed without reserve.

For

you these cherries I protect, To you these plums belong ;

Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,

But sweeter far your song.

Graves.

182.-CONTENTMENT.

See the soft, green willow springing,
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moist and reedy grass.

Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipp'd with vernal red,
And her kindly flower [1] display'd,
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,

But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn Contentment's power,
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks, and live
On the least that heaven may give.

Keble.

183. THE ARAB TO HIS FAVOURITE

STEED.[2]

My beautiful! by,

my

beautiful! that standest meekly

With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,

I may not mount on thee again—thouʼrt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind

.

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:

[1] The Catkin-see note [1], p. 3.

[2] These lines represent the grief of an Arab, who had been induced by poverty to sell his favourite steed.

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his gold

Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home

;

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,

Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's house-from all of these my exil'd one must fly;

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

Y

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feel,-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free:

And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should

yearn

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and, through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage [1] appears;

[1] Mirage-a deception of the sight, by which objects on the earth or water appear raised into the air.

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