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ON THE SAME.
In all devouring flame,
11. O'er MURRAY's loss the Muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm, Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm.
From Flora's balmy store,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The honey on his tongue.
THUS says the prophet of the Tork,
. It may be proper to inform the reader, that thi piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary addition by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, with out the author's privity.
Thos, conscience freed from every clog,
You laugh—'tis well—The tale applied
ON THE DEATH
OF MRS. (now LADY) THROCKMORTON'S
YE nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red
O share Maria's grief!
Assassin'd by a thief.
And, though by nature mute,
Of fagelet or flute.
His bosom of the hue
To sweep away the dew.
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large built, and latticed well.
For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peelid and dried.
The swains their baskets make.
LADY THROCK MORTON'S BULFINCH. 177
Night veil'd the pole, all seem'd secure :
Subsistence to provide.
And badger.colour'd hide.
And something in the wind
Food chiefly for the mind.
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke, and found it true.
Ah, muse! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
of such mellifluous tone,
Fast stuck within his own. Maria weeps the Muses mourn— So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death be died.