Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies;

And calls aloud for sack.

She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears;
And, listening close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound,

But soon articulates aloud,

Much to the amusement of the crowd, And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice
His humorous talent next employs ;
He scolds and gives the lie.

And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick,
Poor Poll is like to die!

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with such a well-match'd pair,

The language and the tone,

Each character in every part

Sustain'd with so much grace and art,

And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,

And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate

When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.

IV. THE CRICKET.

LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be express'd, Inoffensive, welcome guest!

While the rat is on the scout,

And the mouse with curious snout,

With what vermin else infest

Every dish, and spoil the best;

Frisking thus before the fire,

Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play:
Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.

Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,

Half a span, compared with thee.

V. RECIPROCAL KINDNESS

THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

ANDROCLES, from his injured lord, in dread
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled :

Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,
He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat;
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd, approaching: but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed-arrived within,
And, with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day
Regales his inmate with the parted prey.
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.

But thus to live-still lost-sequester'd still—
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must-he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands :
When, lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.
He flies, but viewing, in his purposed prey,
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.

Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: Nature bade him rend

An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

VI. THE THRACIAN.

THRACIAN parents at his birth,

Mourn their babe with many a tear,

But, with undissembled mirth,

Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,
"O the savages!" exclaim,
"Whether they rejoice or mourn,

"Well entitled to the name!"

But the cause of this concern,

And this pleasure, would they trace,
Even they might somewhat learn

From the savages of Thrace.

VII. A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

THERE is a book, which we may call

(Its excellence is such)

Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much.

Words none, things numerous it contains:
And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;

And open'd, it displays to view

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,

Adorns its outer part:

But all within 'tis richly lined,

A magazine of art.