Amidft this cool, translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade,

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

No fchool-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E'er fhews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,
In this fequefter'd place.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet fings;

The goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt,

Yon diftant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chaunt
Thy fweetly plaintive fong.

Let not the harmlefs redbreaft fear,
Domeftic bird, to come

And feek a fure afylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall ftore of fruit preferve:

O let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come, feed without referve.

For thefe cherries I protect,

you

Το you thefe plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have pick'd,
But fweeter far your fong.

Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual int'reft guard;

Mine be the gift of fruit and shade,
Your fongs be my reward.

GRAVES.

THE RAVEN: A FABLE.

A RAVEN, while with gloffy breast
Her new-laid eggs the fondly prefs'd,
And on her wicker-work high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted,
(A fault philofophers might blame,
If quite exempted from the fame,)
Enjoy'd at eafe the genial day;
'Twas April, as the bumkins fay:
But fuddenly a wind, as high

As ever fwept a winter sky,

Shook the young leaves about her ears,

And fill'd her with a thousand fears,
Left the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.

But juft at eve, the blowing weather, And all her fears, were hush'd together; "And now (quoth poor unthinking Ralph) ""Tis over, and the brood is fafe." (For Ravens, tho' as birds of omen, They teach both conj'rors and old women To tell us what is to befal,

Can't prophefy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,
Who long had mark'd his airy lodge,
And deftin'd all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,

Clim'd, like a fquirrel to his prey,

And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone fecures,

In every change, both mine and your's.
Safety confifts not in escape

From dangers of a frightful fhape:
An earthquake may be bid to fpare
The man that's ftrangled by a hair.
G

Fate fteals along with filent tread,
Found oft'neft in what least we dread;
Frowns in the form with angry brow,
But in the funshine ftrikes the blow.

COWPER.

TO A SNOW-DROP.

POETS ftill in graceful numbers
May the glowing roses chufe
But the Snow-drop's fimple beauty
Better fuits an humble mufe.

Earliest bud that decks the garden,
Fairest of the fragrant race,
Firft-born child of vernal Flora,.
Seeking mild thy lowly place.

Tho' no warm, nor murm'ring zephyr,
Fan thy leaves with balmy wing;"
Pleas'd, we hail thee, fpotlefs bloffom,
Herald of the infant Spring.

Thro' the cold and cheerlefs feafon,
Soft thy tender form expands,

Safe in unafpiring graces,

Foremost of the bloomy bands.

White-rob'd flower, in lonely beauty, Rifing from a wintry bed;

Chilling winds and blasts ungenial

Rudely threat'ning round thy head.

Silvery bud, thy penfile foliage
Seems the angry blast to fear;
Yet fecure, thy tender texture
Ornaments the rifing year.

No warm tints, or vivid colouring, Paints thy bells with gaudy pride; Mildly charm'd, we seek thy fragrance, Where no thorns infidious hide.

'Tis not thine, with flaunting beauty
To attract the roving fight;
Nature, from her varied wardrobe
Chofe thy veft of pureft white.

White, as falls the fleecy fhower, Thy foft form in sweetness grows; Not more fair the valley's treafure, Not more fweet her lily blows.

Drooping harbinger of Flora,
Simply are thy blossoms drest;