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.