The ROBIN.

SEE, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have found!

A Robin that lay half benumbed on the ground! I caught him, and fed him, and warm'd in my

breast,

And now he's as nimble and blithe as the rest. Look, look, how he flutters!-He'll slip from my hold.

Ah, rogue! you've forgotten both hunger and cold!

But indeed 'tis in vain, for I sha'n't set you free, For all your whole life you're a prisoner with me; Well hous'd and well fed, in your cage you

A

will sing, And make our dull winter as gay as the spring; But stay-sure 'tis cruel, with wings made to soar, To be shut up in prison and never fly moreAnd I, who so often have longed for a flight, Shall I keep you prisoner?-Mamma-is it right? No, come, pretty Robin, I must set you freeFor your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.

The BULLFINCH,

HARK to the Blackbird's pleasing note:
Sweet usher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear admire the song.

Yon Bullfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh and accent shrill,

Has brighter plumage to attone

For want of harmony and skill.

And while to please some courtly fair
He one dull tune with labour learns,

A well-gilt cage, remote from air,
And faded plumes is all he earns.

Go, hapless captive! still repeat

The sounds which nature never taught: Go, listening fair, and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvied both, go hear and sing

Your studied music o'er and o'er ! Whilst I attend th' inviting Spring

In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.

Lady Luxborough.

The DEAD SPARROW.

TELL me not of joy, there's none
Now my little Sparrow's gone:
He would chirp and play with me;
He would hang the wing awhile;
'Till at length he saw me smile
O how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then,
Sporting, let it go again;
He from my lip

Would moisture sip;

He would from my trencher feed,

Then would hop, and then would run
And cry philip when he'd done;

O! whose heart can choose but bleed?

O how eager would he fight,

And ne'er hurt though he did bite!
No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit and mark and do

What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall;
And then straightway sleek 'em too.

Now my faithful bird is gone;

O let mournful Turtles join

With loving Red-breasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone!

LINES descriptive of the EMIGRATION of BIRDS.

WHEN Autumn scatters his departing gleams,
Warn'd of approaching Winter, gathered, play,
The swallow-people; and toss'd wide around,
O'er the calm sky, in convolution swift,
The feather'd eddy floats; rejoicing once,
Ere to their wint'ry slumbers they retire;

In clusters clung beneath the mouldering bank, And where, unpierc'd by frost, the cavern sweats, Or rather into warmer climes convey'd,

With other kindred birds of season, there

They twitter cheerful, till the vernal months Invite them welcome back; for, thronging, now Innumerous wings are in commotion all.

Where the Rhine loses his majestic force. In Belgian plains, won from the raging deep, By diligence amazing, and the strong Unconquerable hand of Liberty,

The Stork assembly meets; for many a day, Consulting deep, and various, ere they take Their arduous voyage through the liquid sky. And now their route design'd, their leaders chose, Their tribes adjusted, clean'd their vigorous wings;

And many a circle, many a short essay,

Wheel'd round and round in congregation full The figur'd flight ascend; and, riding high The aërial billows, mixes with the clouds,