SOLILOQUY OF A WATER-WAGTAIL ON THE WALLS OF YORK CASTLE.

On the walls that guard my prison,
Swelling with fantastic pride,
Brisk and merry as the season,
I a feather'd coxcomb spied:

When the little hopping elf
Gaily thus amused himself.

"Hear your sovereign's proclamation,
All good subjects, young and old;
I'm the Lord of the Creation ;

I-a Water-Wagtail bold!
All around, and all you see,
All the world was made for ME!

"Yonder sun, so proudly shining,
Rises when I leave my nest;
And, behind the hills declining,
Sets when I retire to rest:
Morn and evening, thus you see,
Day and night, were made for ME!

"Vernal gales to love invite me; Summer sheds for me her beams; Autumn's jovial scenes delight me;

Winter paves with ice my streams; All the year is mine, you see; Seasons change, like moons, for ME!

"On the heads of giant mountains,
Or beneath the shady trees;
By the banks of warbling fountains,
I enjoy myself at ease:
Hills and valleys, thus you see,
Groves and rivers, made for ME!

"Boundless are my vast dominions;
I can hop, or swim, or fly;
When I please, my towering pinions
Trace my empire through the sky:
Air and elements you see,

Heaven and earth, were made for ME!

"Birds and insects, beasts and fishes, All their humble distance keep; Man, subservient to my wishes,

Sows the harvest which I

Mighty man himself, you see,

reap:

All that breathe, were made for ME!

""Twas for my accommodation,

Nature rose when I was born;

Should I die- the whole creation

Back to nothing would return: Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, Sprung-exist, will fall with ME!"

Here the pretty prattler, ending,
Spread his wings to soar away;
But a cruel Hawk descending,

Pounced him up

an helpless prey.

Could'st thou not, poor Wagtail! see, That the Hawk was made for THEE?

April 15, 1796.

THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT.

IN TWO EPISTLES TO A FRIEND.

EPISTLE I.

You ask, my friend, and well you may,
You ask me how I spend the day;
I'll tell you, in unstudied rhyme,
How wisely I befool my time:
Expect not wit, nor fancy then,
In this effusion of my pen;

Each morning, then, at five o'clock,

The adamantine doors unlock;

Bolts, bars, and portals, crash and thunder;

The gates of iron burst asunder;

Hinges that creak, and keys that jingle,

With clattering chains, in concert mingle;
So sweet the din, your dainty ear,
For joy, would break its drum to hear;
While my dull organs, at the sound,
Rest in tranquillity profound;
Fantastic dreams amuse my brain,
And waft my spirit home again.

Though captive all day long 't is true,
At night I am as free as you;
Not ramparts high, nor dungeons deep,
Can hold me when I'm fast asleep.

But every thing is good in season,
I dream at large — and wake in prison.
Yet think not, sir, I lie too late,
I rise as early even as eight:
Ten hours of drowsiness are plenty,
For any man, in four-and-twenty.
You smile and yet 't is nobly done,
I'm but five hours behind the sun!

When dress'd, I to the yard repair, And breakfast on the pure, fresh air: But though this choice Castalian cheer Keeps both the head and stomach clear, For reasons strong enough with me, I mend the meal with toast and tea. Now air and fame, as poets sing, Are both the same, the self-same thing; Yet bards are not cameleons quite, And heavenly food is very light; Who ever dined or supp'd on fame, And went to bed upon a name?

Breakfast despatch'd, I sometimes read, To clear the vapors from my head; For books are magic charms, I ween,

Both for the crotchets and the spleen.