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. 
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! 
Hither, then thou wanton fly!
Bless thy soft captivity.
And lull with notes of soothing sound,
The pangs which do my bosom wound.