The Robin.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

9

CIBBER.

THE ROBIN.

SEE, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have found!

A robin that lay half benumbed on the ground! I caught him and fed him, and warmed in my breast,

And now he's as nimble and blithe as the best. Look, look how he flutters!-He'll slip from my hold.

Ah, rogue! you've forgotten both hunger and cold!

But indeed 'tis in vain, for I sha'n't set you free, For all your whole life you're a prisoner with me; Well housed, and well fed, in your cage you will sing,

And make our dull winter as gay as the spring.

But stay,-sure 'tis cruel, with wings made to

soar,

To be shut up in prison, and never fly more! And I, who so often have longed for a flight, Shall I keep you prisoner?-Mamma-is it right?

No, come, pretty robin, I must set you free,For your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.

ORIGINAL.

THE KID.

A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede.

Erewhile, in sportive circles, round

She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,

And on the fearful margin play.

The First of April.

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;

Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravished at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze;
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how, with eager speed,
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care:
And tears.bedew her tender eye
To think the playful kid must die.

11

SHENSTONE.

THE FIRST OF APRIL.

MINDFUL of disaster past,

And shrinking at the northern blast,

12

The First of April.

The sleety storm returning still,

The morning hoar, the evening chill,
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,

Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around
That clothe the garden's southern bound:
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps:
O'er the field of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom :
Scant along the ridgy land

The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades,
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green:
Fraught with a transient frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower;
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But, when gleams the sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
Amd from behind his watery veil
Looks through the thin descending hail,

India.

She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blythe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
'Mid the dim rainbow's scattered hues.
Beneath a willow, long forsook,
The fisher seeks his 'customed nook,
And, bursting thro' the crackling sedge
That crowns the current's caverned edge,
Startles from the bordering wood

The bashful wild-duck's early brood.

13

WARTON.

INDIA.

WHERE sacred Ganges pours along the plain, And Indus rolls to swell the eastern main, What awful scenes the curious mind delight, What wonders burst upon the dazzled sight! There giant palms lift high their tufted heads, The plantain wide his graceful foliage spreads; Wild in the woods the active monkey springs, The chattering parrot claps his painted wings; 'Mid tall bamboos lies hid the deadly snake, The tiger couches in the tangled brake;

C