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AUTUMN OF 1793.
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound theinselves about this heart,
My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
For could I view nor them nor thee,
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
My Mary! But ab! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
() share Maria's grief!
Assassin'd by a thief,
Where Rhenus strays his vine among,
And though by nature mute,
Of flagelet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
His bosom of the hue
To sweep away the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large-built and latticed well.
Well-latticed—but the grate, alas!
For Bully's plumage sake,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure:
Subsistence to provide,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, entering at the study-door,
And something in the wind
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, muse! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
O had he made that too his
Of such mellifluous tone,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps—the Muses mourn-
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.