No. XXII.
Ode to a Bullfinch.
Little wanton flutterer, say, Whither wouldst thou wing thy way? Why those airy circles make? All untried the thorny brake. Wintry clouds deform the scene; Faintly glows the sickly green; Piercing winds, and chilling showers Rudely blight the opening flowers: Scarce a blossom dares expand, Nipp’d by boreas’ icy hand: Slowly from her native bed The violet rears her lovely head, And to the northern blast expos’d; Folds her leaves, ere half disclos’d.
See the wily fowler laid Close beneath the hawthorn shade; Mark his tyrannous intent, Full on schemes of murder bent: For within that rugged breast, Meek-eyed pity ne’er would rest; Nor the softer powers of love, Ere that stoic heart could move. [259] Various dangers lurking lie In the guise of liberty.
Little trembler, hither fly, In my bosom safely lie; Sympathy, and tenderness, Do that bosom still possess! There thy glossy plumes unfold, Plumes of azure, and of gold; While secure from every harm, Pining want, and rude alarm, A willing captive still remain, Nor wish thy liberty to gain.
Whisp’ring nature prompts to fly, Seeking sweet society; Or the gentler voice of love, Bids thee range the mazy grove. Ah! thy fond intent forbear, Transient joys, which end in care: All a parent’s anxious woe Soon thy downy breast would know, Lest the truant school-boys eye Should thy tender young descry! Lest the ruder vernal storm, Should thy little nest deform! [260]
Hither, then thou wanton fly! Bless thy soft captivity. And lull with notes of soothing sound, The pangs which do my bosom wound.
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