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THE

BLACK BIRD.

A MAKARONY FABLE.

BY JOHN HALL STEPHENSON, ESQ.

IN concert with the curfew bell,

An Owl was chaunting Vefpers in his cell ;
Upon the outfide of the wall,

A Black Bird, famous in that age,
From a bow window in the hall,

Hung dangling in a wicker cage;
Instead of pfalmody and pray❜rs,

Like thofe good children of St. Francis,
He fecularized all his airs,

And took delight in Wanton Fancies.

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Whilft the bell toll'd, and the Owl chaunted,

Every thing was calm and still;

All nature feem'd rapp'd and enchanted,

Except the querelous, unthankfull rill;

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Unawed by this impofing scene,

Our Black Bird the enchantment broke;
Flourish'd a sprightly air between,

And whistled the Black Joke.

* Born 1718; dyed 1785.

This lively unexpected motion

Set nature in a gayer light;

Quite over-turn'd the Monks devotion,
And scatter'd all the gloom of night.

I have been taught in early youth,

By an expert Metaphyfician,
That ridicule's the test of truth,

And only match for superstition.
Impofing rogues, with looks demure,
At Rome keep all the world in awe ;
Wit is profane, learning impure,
And reasoning against the Law.
Between two tapers and a book,
Upon a dreffer clean and neat,
Behold a facerdotal Cook,
Cooking a dish of heavenly meat!

How fine he curtfies! Make

your

bow;

Thump your breaft foundly, beat your poll;

Lo! he has tofs'd up a Ragout,

To fill the belly of your foul.

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Even here there are some holy men,

Would fain lead people by the nose;

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Did not a Black Bird, now and then,
Benevolently interpofe.

My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean,
You shall get nothing by your spite;
Triftram fhall whistle at your spleen,
And put Hypocrify to flight.

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Grazie a gl' inganni tuoi,

Alfin refpiro, O Nice;

Alfind' uno infedele

Ebber gli dei pietà.

TO MISS

BY THE SAME.

THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair,
The gods, fo long in vain implor'd,
At laft have heard a wretch's prayer;
At laft I find myself reftor'd,

From thy bewitching fnares and thee:

I feel for once this is no dream;

I feel my captive foul is free;
And I am truly what I feem.

I cannot now, as heretofore,

Put on indifference or difdain,

To finother flames, that burn no more,
To hide a paffion void of pain.

Without a blush your name I hear,

No tranfient glow my bosom heats; And, when I meet your eye, my dear,

My fluttering heart no longer beats.

Metaftafio.

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I dream, but I no longer find

Your form ftill present to my view; I wake, but now my vacant mind

No longer waking dreams of you.

Abfent, for you, no more I pine,

But wander careless day or night; Prefent, no word, no look, no fign, Argues disturbance or delight.

I hear your praise, no tender flame

Now thrills refponfive through my veins ;

No indignation, only shame,

For all my former wrongs remains.

I meet you now without alarms,
Nor longer fearful to displease,

I talk with ease about your charms,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.

Whether in angry mood you rife,

Or sweetly fit with placid guile,

Vain is the lightning of your eyes,

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And vainer ftill your gilded fmile.

Loves, in your smiles, no longer play;

Your lips, your tongue, have lost their art;

Those eyes have now forgot the way

That led directly to my heart.

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Whether with grief the mind's diseased,
Or the unburthen'd spirits glad;
No thanks to you, when I am pleased,
You have no blame, when I am fad.

Hills, woods, and lawns, and bleating flocks, 45

Without you, captivate me still,

But dreary moors and naked rocks,

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I now spy faults, my lovely friend,
Which I mistook before for graces.

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And yet, tho' free, I thought at first,

With shame my weakness I confefs,

My agonizing heart would burst,

The agonies of death are lefs.

Who would not, when his foul's opprefs'd,

Gladly poffefs himself again?

To pluck a ferpent from his breaft,

Who would not bear the fharpeft pain?

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