"He's ne'er accounted fool or rogue, "Whose vice or folly is in vogue,”

The Bullfinch and Sparrow,

A Fable, from the French, of the King of Prussia.

Or greatness, and its pompous train,
What notions false, we entertain!

The glittering dress, the splendid feast,
Those seeking most, who know them least;
Our time, anxiety, and cost,

In the vain acquisition lost.

Its joy and grief, to every state
Adapted by the will of fate,
The man we envy, oft as blest,

In secret pines, with care oppress'd!
Of this, though trite, just observation,
My fable is an illustration.

As, on the rake, one winter's day,
A town-bred sparrow wing'd his way,
Possess'd of each engaging art

To win the feather'd fair one's heart,

To all his rivals still preferr'd,

The favourite of each female bird.

He lighted near an ancient seat,

Whose turrets mark the squire's retreat;
The mansion, where renown'd in fame,
Resides the guardian of the game;
Or the right worshipful the Mayor,
Whose corporation's all his care.

There, hopping round from tree to tree, Curious, no doubt, to hear and see, A Bullfinch, from a window nigh, Attracted the young rover's eye Struck with the warbler's gilded cage, He glow'd with envy, grief and rage. "How partial," he exclaim'd, "is fate! "See how that Bullfinch lives in state, "The happiest of the feather'd race! "How different the poor Sparrow's case! "He, shelter'd from the winds and rain, "Still chaunts at ease his warbling strain. "While I sit, shivering in the shower,

Exposed through each inclement hour "To nipping frost, or melting snows; "Ills that no pamper'd Bullfinch knows!

"He, cherish'd at a sumptuous board,
"Is logd'd and feasted like a lord;
"Fondled and by his master fed,

"With sweetest cakes and whitest bread;
"While after me the village runs,
"With pelting stones and popping guns;
"Forced by such barbarous sport to fly,
"A miserable wanderer I,

"In the more hospitable wood

"Pick, up and down, precarious food. "Hard lot! alas, how different mine, "Compared, thrice happy bird with thine! Why, cruel fate, live I to rue

"I was not hatch'd a Bulfinch too!

The finch, in quite a well-bred way,
Heard what our Sparrow had to say,
And understood him, though at distance,
Without the interpreter's assistance.

Indeed a bird, not quite a fool,

Brought up in so polite a school,

Could not be thought in want of learning:
A word's enough to the discerning.
Not comprehend the vulgar folk!

Poh, comprehend! tis all a joke,

Smiling to find the awkward blunder
The foolish fellow labour'd under;
He, pluming up his haughty crest,
The envious grumbler thus address'd:

"Sure my good friend, you're touch'd in brain, "To talk in this mistaken strain;

""Tis true there's something of a smattering
"Of wit, in what you have been chattering;
"But, chirp as smartly as you will,
"Trust me you reason very ill ;
"And to be serious for a while,

"In truth, your envy makes me smile.
"What is there in this fine gilt cage
"So auch your fancy should engage?
"These wires my prison bars, where I,
"A splendid slave must live and die!
"Go hence, content, and learn of me,
"How vain the finery you see.
"Forbear my joys true bliss to call:

"Thy liberty is worth them all.”

From this writer's Poem, that which has been most praised is selected. The author mistook inclination for power, and has luckily found Criticks, who have accepted the will for the deed.

MADNESS.

SWELL the clarion, sweep the string,,

Blow into rage te Muse's fires !
All thy answers, echo, bring,

Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,
'Tis Madness self inspires.