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Meet and convenient-pleasure, if thou wilt-
If not, then pain-and be it sharp as this,
My heart, tho' wounded, shall adore thee still.

MISCELLANIES.

MISCELLANIES.

TO A SISTER.

WHEN kind Cecilia welcom'd to her breast

The finch the schoolboy pilfer'd from its nest;
And fed the nursling till its plumage grew,
And its firm pinions with full vigour flew,
She ope'd her chamber in the blaze of day,
And bade the feather'd foundling post away.
'Go little bird, to range the field be thine,
To give thee liberty and life was mine;
No ransom ask I, recompens'd enow,
To hear thy song upon the distant bough.'
But he, by gratitude's sweet tie detain'd,
Felt to her hand his small affection chain'd.
He fled indeed, and with true transport burn'd,

But still to her and to his cage return'd.

Nor went she forth to saunter in the grove,

But still he came, and perch'd upon her glove,
Still on her shoulder sat to sing, and sip
The honey'd beverage of her dewy lip;
Nor suffer'd love (such passion finches feel)
His little bosom from her kiss to steal.

So, dear Eliza, tho' I make thee free,
Thy daughter-like affection clings to me;
And, tho' I bid thee a fond bride become,
Thy warmest wishes anchor still at home.
"Go gentle maid, to range the fields be thine,
To give thee nurture, and sweet grace, was mine;
No ransom ask I, nor will inly moan,

So thou rejoice, to spend my days alone,
Silent to sit, and silent brooks explore,

Thy cage deserted and thy song no more.

Sweet bird thy mate invites thee to the wood;

Go, and be happy as thy heart is good.

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