LITTLE bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me:
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
Nothing heed an idle song.
Daily near my table steal,
While I pick my scanty meal;
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee ;
Well rewarded, if I spy
Pleasure in thy glaring eye;
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feather'd friend, again! Well thou know'st the broken pane;
Ask of me thy daily store,
Go not to Avaro's door:
Once within his iron hall
Woeful end shall thee befall.
Savage! he would soon divest Of its ruddy plumes thy breast; Then with solitary joy,
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
O Come, thou melancholy Muse,
With solemn dirge assist my strain,
While shades descend, and weeping dews
In sorrows wrap the rural plain.
Her mantle grave cool Evening spreads,
The Sun cuts short his joyful race;
The jocund hills, the laughing meads,
Put on a sickening, dying face.
Stern Winter brings his gloomy train,
Each pleasing landscape fades from view;
In solemn state he shuts the scene,
To flow'ry fields we bid adieu !
Quite stript of every beauty, see
How soon fair Nature's honours fade! The flow'rs are fled, each spreading tree No more affords a grateful shade.
Their naked branches now, behold,
Bleak winds pierce thro' with murmuring sound; Chill'd by the northern breezes cold,
Their leafy honours strew the ground.
So man, who treads life's active stage,
Like leaf or blossom, fades away;
In tender youth, or riper age,
Drops thus into his native clay!
Alas! and can we chuse but moan,
To see all Nature's charms expire!
Fair blooming Spring, gay Summer gone,
And Autumn hastening to retire!
But see the tender Redbreast comes,
Forsaking now the leafless grove,
Hops o'er my threshold, pecks my crumbs,
And courts my hospitable love;
Then soothes me with his plaintive tale,
As Sol withdraws his friendly ray;
Cheering, as evening shades prevail,
The soft remains of closing day.
O welcome to my homely board!
There unmolested shalt thou stand;
Were it with choicest dainties stor❜d:
For thee I'd ope a liberal hand.
Since thou of all the warbling throng,
Who now in silence far retire, Remain'st to sooth me with a song,
And many a pleasing thought inspire.
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