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ON
THE DEATH

OF
MRS THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.

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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.

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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.

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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,

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