Home! native home! Oh might he but repair!
He must-he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands:
When lo! the selfsame lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famished into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And, softened by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze ?
All this is natural: Nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend..
MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY
THERE is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains:
And things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
And opened, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.
Nor name nor title, stamped behind,
Adorns its outer part;
But all within 'tis richly lined,
A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit: and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,
As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size,
And formed for various use,
(They need but to consult their eyes)
They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,
A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such from age.
The full charged leaf, which next ensues,
Presents in bright array
The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Who with a more discerning eye
Perform a nicer task.
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!
No book is treasured there,
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,
That may with this compare.
No!-rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen,
Or, that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.
Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,
The labour is not light;
Nor few artificers it asks,
All skilful in their several tasks,
To fashion us aright.
One fuses metal o'er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,
The sheers another plies,
Who clips in length the brazen thread
For him who, chafing every shred
Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob with which it must be crowned;
His follower makes it fast:
And with his mallet and his file
To shape the point, employs awhile
The seventh and the last.
Now therefore, Edipus! declare
What creature, wonderful, and rare,
A process that obtains
Its purpose with so much ado
At last produces !—tell me true,
And take me for your pains!
SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN TRINITY COLLEGE,
NONE ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome
Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he viewed the novel sight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeathered brood;
And oft as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,
Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around,
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call.
Arrived, the pensionary band,
Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive,
The sprinkled, plenteous donative.
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge:
A single doit would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place?
As in her ancient mistress' lap
The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,
Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm,
Mere wantonness the cause.
At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground
With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:
It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest,
Should bear a kitten's joke.
INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.
SWEET bird, whom the winter constrainsAnd seldom another it can
To seek a retreat while he reigns
In the well sheltered dwellings of man,
Who never can seem to intrude,
Though in all places equally free,
Come, oft as the season is rude,
Thou art sure to be welcome to me.
At sight of the first feeble ray
That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day
My windows shall show thee a feast;
For, taught by experience, I know
Thee mindful of benefit long,
And that, thankful for all I bestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song.
Then, soon as the swell of the buds
Bespeaks the renewal of spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing :
And shouldst thou, compelled by a frost,
Come again to my window or door,
Doubt not an affectionate host,
Only pay as thou paidst me before.
Thus music must needs be confessed
To flow from a fountain above;
Else how should it work in the breast
Unchangeable friendship and love?
And who on the globe can be found,
Save your generation and ours,
That can be delighted by sound,
Or boasts any musical powers?
THE shepherd touched his reed; sweet Philomel Essayed, and oft essayed to catch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,
The numbers, echoed note for note again.
The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
And soon (for various was his tuneful store)
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.
She dared the task, and, rising as he rose,
With all the force that passion gives inspired,
Returned the sounds awhile, but in the close
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.
Thus strength, not skill prevailed. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;
And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won!
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