The acquitted parents see their soaring race, And, once rejoicing, never know them more. Thomson's Seasons.

The NIGHTINGALE and HAWK.

A NIGHTINGALE in her retreat,
Exerted all her native pow'rs;
Compos'd and sung plaintively sweet,
To charm the silent hours.
A hungry Hawk in ambush lay,

, And seiz'd the hapless songster for his prey;
The warbling victim try'd, in vain,
To melt a cruel tyrant's heart;
Proof against every moving strain
Of nature or of art.

Charmer, said he, I wait too long,

Hawks require food more solid than a song; Then with a villain's smile he struck

The loveliest tenant of the wood;

In her poor heart his beak he stuck,
Rioting in her vital blood,

On the DEATH of a LADY'S SPARROW.

THE bird expires! Death gave the dreadful word,

And lovely Anna mourns her fav'rite bird:
Ye feather'd choir, in willing throngs repair,
And soothe the sorrow of the weeping fair;
In sounds of woe the dear departed greet,
With cypress, strew, ye Doves, the green re-
treat;

The hateful Raven toll the passing bell,
The solemn dirge be sung by Philomel;
With your just tears the bard shall mix his own,
And thus in artless verse inscribe the stone:

EPITAPH.

Interr'd within this little space,

A bird in silence lies:

Learn hence how vain is ev'ry grace;
How fruitless to be wise,

Can mortals stop the arm of death,
Who ne'er compassion knew?
He each, in turn, will rob of breath,
Who Anna's fav'rite slew.

Ah, happy bird! to raise those sighs,
Which I could ne'er obtain.
Ah, happy bird! to cloud those eyes,
That fire each kneeling swain.

Thrice bless'd thy life, her joy, her bliss,
Thrice bless'd thy happy doom:

She gave thee many a gentle kiss,
She wept upon thy tomb.

On seeing a GOLDFINCH in a Cage, hung in a Garden.

SECLUDED from the feather'd throng,

Who gaily hop from tree to tree: la vain thou try'st, with plaintive song, To fix their kind regards on thee.

Thus have I seen, in prison pent,

Some wretch by fortune's frowns undone; Through gloomy bars his fate lament To crowds, who pass regardless on.

As once the

DEATH of the LARK.

grove the fair one trod,

And tun'd the Sylvan strain,

A Lark to imitate her strove,
But strove, alas! in vain.

Her mattin song she ceas'd to sing,
Or hail the rising dawn;
But bid adieu! in plaintive notes,
To ev'ry mead and lawn.

To rage (poor bird!) a victim fell,
To think in vain she try'd;

Then stretch'd a wing, and dropp'd the spray,
Forsook the skies, and dy'd.