ON THE DEATH

OF A FAVORITE CANARY.

My little pet, my fav'rite bird,
The sweetest songster ever heard,
Was flutt'ring loose on golden wings,
Around my room, in airy rings.

With liberty he seem'd delighted, And chirp'd on ev'ry thing he 'lighted: "Ah! who" thought I, "from prison free, "Would not be quite as blithe as he?"

Amus'd I listen'd to his song,

So cheerful, sprightly, loud, and long;
And as the hour thus happy pass'd,
I little deem'd 'twould be his last.

But Providence, who watches all,
Whose eye surveys the sparrow fall,
Had doom'd that my Canary too
Should pay the debt to nature due.

His song had ceased; he seem'd oppress'd With weariness, and wish'd to rest;

All other wantons flirt about,

Till with their gambols tired out.

I rose to catch my little prize,
And cage him e'er he clos'd his eyes;
But no, the sweets of liberty

Were fresh upon his memory.

He started from his pensive mood,
As anxiously I near him stood;

And as I stretch'd my hand to hold him,
And in my bosom to enfold him,

He dash'd with force against the wall;

I saw him stagger, faint, and fall;

To save his life I vainly tried;

He flutter'd, hung his head, and died.

Ah, little think the gay, the vain,
That crowd the road in pleasure's train,
And rush through folly's giddy maze,
The lesson that my bird conveys.

From study, from restraint set free,
Youth haste's the busy world to see;
Borne forward by the glitt'ring prize,
Which pleasure raises to their eyes.

Mad with their freedom they pursue
Life's fancied joys within their view;
Nor ever to the voice attend,

That warns them where their follies end.

The friendly hand that would restrain,
Is stretch'd to save, but stretch'd in vain;
The wiser youth sage wisdom scorns,
And laughs at ev'ry voice that warns.

D

The fears the prudent would presage
Are deem'd the dotage of old age,
Chimæras, fancies they forebode,
To rob them of their present good.

The counsel thus to folly lent,
In noise and ribaldry is spent ;
Fandango, ball, and rout contend
Against the warnings of the friend;

Till wise too late, the phantom flies, And passes from their aching eyes; Too late they see their errors past, And vainly mourn their fate at last.

Had little Birdy trusted more

The hand that foster'd him before, He still had liv'd to sing his song, And I to listen all day long.

ON THE FALL OF A LEAF.

I walk'd in my garden; its beauties were flown; All its lilies and roses were wither'd and gone: The birds there no longer were heard, or were seen;

The shrubs wore no longer their liv'ry of green.

I walk'd in the fields; they no longer delighted; Their former soft verdure was wither'd and blighted:

The pale sickly leaves of the ash and the oak, The dullness and dankness of winter bespoke.

As I gaz'd with some awe on these emblems of

man,

And weigh'd the resemblance again and again, A large heavy leaf overcharg'd with the dew, Was torn from its bough by the wind as it blew.