HE Prince of all the feather'd kind,
That with spread wings out-flies the wind,
And tow'rs far out of human fight
To view the fhining orb of light:
This Royal Bird, tho' brave and great,
And armed ftrong for ftern debate,
No tyrant is, but condefcends
Oft-times to treat inferior friends.
One day at his command did flock To his high palace on a rock, The courtiers of ilk various fize That swiftly swim in chrystal skies;
* Written before the year 1600.
Thither the valiant Tarfels doup,
And here rapacious Corbies croup,
With greedy Gleads, and fly Gormahs,
And dinfom Pyes, and chattering Dawes ;
Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,
Brush'd up their pens that folemn day,
Bow'd firft fubmiffive to my Lord,
Then took their places at his board.
Meantime while feasting on a fawn,
And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,
A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,
Hard-by upon a burr-tree fung.
He fang the EAGLE's royal line,
His piercing eye, and right divine
To fway out-owre the feather'd thrang,
Who dread his martial bill and fang:
His flight fublime, and eild renew'd,
His mind with clemency endow'd;
In fofter notes he fang his love,
More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.
The Monarch Bird with blithenefs heard
The chaunting little filvan Bard,
Call'd up a Buzzard, who was then
His favourite, and chamberlain.
Swith to my treasury, quoth he,
And to yon canty ROBIN gie
As muckle of our current gear
may maintain him thro' the year;
We can well spar't, and it's his due;
He bade, and forth the Judas flew,
Straight to the branch where ROBIN fung,
And with a wicked lying tongue,
Said ah! ye fing fo dull and rough,
Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,
His Majesty has a nice ear,
And no more of your ftuff can bear;
Poke up your pipes, be no more seen
At court, I warn you as a frien.
He fpake, while ROBIN's fwelling breaft,
And drooping wings his grief expreft;
The tears ran happing down his cheek,
Great grew his heart, he could not speak,
No for the tinfel of reward,
But that his notes met no regard :
Strait to the fhaw he fpread his wing,
Refolv'd again no more to fing,
Where princely bounty is fuppreft
By fuch with whom They are oppreft;
Who cannot bear (because they want it)
That ought should be to merit granted.
BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.
Parent of each lovely mufe,
Thy spirit o'er my foul diffuse!
O'er all my artless fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no coftly wine;
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare ;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy fnowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren fnow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and fea :
While the vast various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midst falls of water you refide:
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and graffy dales between:
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one ftraw-rooft cott was rear'd;
Where Nature feems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines clufter round the door,
Where fhells and mofs o'erlay the floor;
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her neft,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to reft.
Then lay me by the haunted ftream,
Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream;
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufic in my ear;
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