18 The Thrush. THE THRUSH. How void of care yon merry thrush, He never frets for worthless things, Of true felicity possest, He glides through life supremely blest: On Him whose love the world supplies. Rejoiced he finds his morning fare, WILLIAMS. THE The Dead Sparrow. 19 THE DEAD SPARROW. TELL me not of joy, there's none He would catch a crumb, and then, Would moisture sip; He would from my trencher feed, O! whose heart can choose but bleed? O how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt, though he did bite! But on my glass He He would sit, and mark and do His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall; And then straightway sleek 'em too. Now my faithful bird is gone; With loving red-breasts, and combine THE SWALLOW. SWALLOW! that on rapid wing Now here, now there, now low, now high, Could I skim away with thee Over land and over sea, What streams would flow, what cities rise, Sport The Swallow. Sport among the feather'd choir Where Bourdeaux adorns his side; f Cross the towering Pyrenees, 'Mid orange groves and myrtle trees; Entering then the wild domain 21 Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain, Where silk-worms spin, and olives grow And mules plod surely on and slow. + Far to south our course away, ORIGINAL, ODE 92 Ode on Solitude. ODE ON SOLITUDE. HAPPY the man whose wish and care Content to breathe his native air In his own ground! Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night, study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. POFE. |