Those ills that wait on all below,

Shall ne'er be felt by me;

Or, gently felt, and only so,

As being shar'd with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,

I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side,
Resolv'd, a union form'd for life,
Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought,)
Thou could'st become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot;

No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak;

Denied th' endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break.”

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind;

And I recorded what I heard,—

A lesson for mankind.

COWPER.

SECTION VII.

The goldfinches.

ALL in a garden, on a currant bush,
Two goldfinches had built their airy seat;
In the next orchard liv'd a friendly thrush;

Nor distant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here, blest with ease, and in each other blest,
With early songs they wak'd the neighb'ring groves;
Till time matur'd their joy, and crown'd their nest
With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now, what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last?
How does the fairest purpose often fail!
A truant school-boy's wantonness could blast
Their flatt'ring hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;

No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart : With concord false, and hideous prosody,

He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On mischief bent, he mark'd with rav'nous eyes,

Where, wrapt in down, the callow songsters lay; Then rushing, rudely, seiz'd the glitt'ring prize, And bore it in his impious hands away!

But how shall I describe, in numbers rude,
The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed,
When, from her secret stand, aghast, she view'd
The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed?

"O grief of griefs!" with shrieking voice she cried, "What sight is this that I have liv'd to see!

O! that I had in youth's fair season died,
From all false joys, and bitter sorrows free.

Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,

Was it for this I poiz'd th' unwieldy straw; For this I bore the moss from yonder hill,

Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to draw?

Was it for this I pick'd the wool with care,
Intent with nicer skill our work to crown;

For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair,
And lin❜d our cradle with the thistle's down?

Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,

And ceas'd to rove at large from plain to plain;

For this I sat at home whole days confin'd,

To bear the scorching heat and pealing rain?

Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim?
For this the roses on my cheek turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim !
And all my wonted mirth and spirits fail!"

Thus sung the mournful bird her piteous tale ;-
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then side by side, they sought the distant vale;
And there in secret sadness inly mourn'd.

SECTION VIII.

JAGO.

The pet lamb.

THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied,
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.

No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;

With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to the mountain lamb she gave its ev'ning meal.

'Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty rare; I watch'd them with delight; they were a lovely pair. And now with empty can, the maiden turn'd away, But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Towards the lamb she look'd; and from that shady place,

I, unobserv'd, could see the workings of her face:
If nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid would
sing.

"What ails thee, young one? what? why pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be: Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

What is it thou wouldst seek? What's wanting to thy heart?

Thy limbs are they not strong? and beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flow'rs they have no

peers;

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.