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, Hither the vocal thrush repairs, The goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares, Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt, Yon diftant woods among, Let not the harmlefs redbreaft fear, And feek a fure afylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees for you, ye artless tribe, O let me thus your friendship bribe! For thefe cherries I protect, you Το you thefe plums belong; Let then this league betwixt us made Mine be the gift of fruit and shade, GRAVES. THE RAVEN: A FABLE. A RAVEN, while with gloffy breast As ever fwept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, 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, 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. From dangers of a frightful fhape: Fate fteals along with filent tread, COWPER. TO A SNOW-DROP. POETS ftill in graceful numbers Earliest bud that decks the garden, Tho' no warm, nor murm'ring zephyr, Thro' the cold and cheerlefs feafon, 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 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 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, |