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THE SPARROWS AT MENWINYON

IN CORNWALL.

BY THE REV. J. WHALEY, M. A.

BIRDS, in joy all birds excelling,
Happy slaves to endless Love,
Happier here than if your dwelling
Were the sacred Cyprian grove!
What though those celestial sparrows
Boast their food from Venus' hands,
And their feathers wing the arrows,
With which Cupid all commands;
Tell them, Beauty's all opinion,
And ye much mistaken are,
If the sisters at Menwinyon
Outgo not the Graces far.
Tell the charms ye daily gaze on,

As ye hop the woods among;
Such no mortal e'er set eyes on,
Such Catullus never sung.
Were his mistress' sparrow living,

And these sisters to him shown,

He, poor bird, would die with grieving,
Seeing Lesbia so out-done.

Her then, sparrows, each gay morning
With your chirping lays salute;
Hither each cool eve returning

Nestle midst the leaves and fruit.
And if e'er your rest be broken
By the nets of some rude clown,
To the sisters be it spoken,
And they'll kill him with a frown.

ON

A FLY,

THAT FLEW INTO A LADY'S EYE,

AND THERE LAY BURIED IN A TEAR.

BY R. FLETCHER.

POOR envious Soul! what could'st thou see
In that bright Orb of purity-

That active globe-that twinkling sphere
Of beauty-to be meddling there?
Or didst thou foolishly mistake
The glowing morn in that day-break!
Or was 't thy pride, to mount so high
Only to kiss the Sun and die ?
Or did'st thou think to rival all,
Don Phaeton and his great fall?
And in a richer sea of brine

Drown Icarus again in thine?

'Twas bravely aim'd, and, which is more, Thou hast sunk the Fable c'er and o'er :

For in the single death of thee

Thou has bankrupt all antiquity..

O had the fair Egyptian Queen
Thy glorious monument once seen,

How had she spar'd what Time forbids,
The needless tottering pyramids !
And, in an emulative chafe,

Have begg'd thy shrine her epitaph!
Where, when her aged marble must,
Resign her honour into dust,
Thou might'st have canonized her
Deceased Time's executor !

To rip up all the western bed
Of spices, where Sol lays his head,
To squeeze the Phoenix and her nest
In one perfume that may write BEST,
Then blend the gallery of the skies
With her seraglio of eyes,

T'embalm a name, and raise a tomb,
The miracle of all to come,

Then, then, compare it: here's a gem,
A pearl, must shame and pity them;
An amber drop, distilled by
The sparkling limbec of an eye,
Shall dazzle all the short essays
Of rubbish worth, and shallow praise.

We strive not then to prize that tear, Since we have nought to poise it here. The World's too light. Hence, hence,' we cry, "The World: the World's not worth a Fly.'

ON

A SPIDER.

BY DR. LITTLETON.

ARTIST, who underneath my table
Thy curious texture has display'd!
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wert once a lovely blooming maid!

Insidious, restless, watchful Spider,
Fear no officious damsel's broom;
Extend thy artful fabric wider,

And spread thy banners round my room.

Swept from the rich man's costly cieling, Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof; Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling, And undisturb'd attend thy woof.

Whilst I thy wondrous fabric stare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate;
Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banish'd rooms of state.