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Those burnish'd colours to bestow,
Her pencil in the heavenly bow
She dipp'd, and made thy plumes to glow
With
every

hue
That in the dancing sunbeam plays,
And with the ruby's vivid blaze,
Mingled the emerald's lucid rays

With halcyon blue.

Then placed thee under genial skies,
Where flowers and shrubs spontaneous rise,
With richer fragrance, bolder dyes,

By her endued ;
And bade thee pass thy happy hours
In tamarind shades and palmy bowers,
Extracting from unfading flowers

Ambrosial food.

There, lovely Bee-bird, may'st thou rove
Through spicy vale and citron grove,
And woo and win thy fluttering love,

With plume so bright;
There rapid fly, more heard than seen,
'Mid orange boughs of polish'd green,
With glowing fruits and flowers between,

Of purest white.

There feed, and take thy balmy rest,
There weave thy little cotton nest,
And may no cruel hand molest

Thy timid bride;
Nor those bright, changeful plumes of thine
Be offer'd on th' unfeeling shrine,
Where some dark Beauty loves to shine

In gaudy pride.

Nor may

her sable lover's care
Add to the baubles in her hair
Thy dazzling feathers, rich and rare;

And thou, poor bird,
For this inhuman purpose bleed,
While gentle hearts abhor the deed,
And Mercy's trembling voice may plead,

But plead unheard.

Oh! bid the thoughtless triflers know,
Not all the hues thy plumes can show,
Become them like the conscious glow

Of modesty :
And that not half so lovely seems
The ray that from the diamond gleams,
As the pure gem that sweetly beams

In Pity's eye.

TO THE CROW, THAT FLIES HOME AT

NIGHT.

Say, weary bird, whose level flight,

Thus, at the dusky hour of night, Waves through the midway air,

Why thus beyond the verge of day

Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay, Adding another to the hours of care ?

The wren, within her mossy nest,

Has hush'd her little brood to rest; The wild wood-pigeon, rock'd on high,

Has coo'd his last soft notes of love,

And fondly nestles by his dove, [sky. To guard her downy young from the inclement

Haste, bird, and nurse thy callow brood,

That wait thy slow return for food, On some bleak cliff's neglected tree;

Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight,

This is the chilly hour of night, Fit hour for rest for me and thee.

SONG.

Heywood.

Pack clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft,

To give my love good morrow! Wings from the wind, to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, plume thy wing, nightingale, sing,

To give my love good morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,

Sing, birds in every furrow; And from each hill let music shrill Give

my fair love good morrow! Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! You pretty elves, among yourselves

Sing my fair love good morrow !

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Now while night's dancing lamps the waste

illume, And a rich silence bindeth earth and sky,

I hear thy deep and long-repeated cry Break through the dimness, with a sudden boom, From some reed-circled lonely pool, whereon

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