ON
THE DEATH

OF
MRS THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.

He, ent’ring at the study-door,
Its ample area ’gan explore;

And something in the wind
Conjectur’d, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,

Food, chiefly, for the mind.

Maria weeps— The Muses mourn
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracian Hebrus' lide
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS TAROCKMORTON, Maria! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never get in rhime,