246 AMONG THE POETS. 



He trusts to make his fortune by the priest ; 

 Of some rich dame the favour suit to win, 

 And thereunto he follows the queen's court 

 But stopping in his way at Romford here, 

 Set eyes upon the Linnet I would lime, 

 And tarries at our house. But lest he spoil 

 My sport, I 've pointed out the bush to him 

 Where sits a Goldfinch but a painted one 

 Our Kate, that's vowed to wed a gentleman, 

 Our chambermaid, to seek her fortune, came 

 Like him to Romford, and alighted here. 



Cowper, whose lines to a Goldfinch starved to death 

 must be well known to most of our readers, and many 

 another poet, has offered a tribute of admiration to this 

 beautiful bird ; foremost among them is Bishop Mant, 

 from whose lengthened address we extract these stanzas : 



Sing, pretty bird, though bright and gay 

 The colours of thy plumed array ; 

 More gay and bright than often own 

 The natives of our temperate zone. 

 To thee the sprightliness belong, 

 And sweetness of the vernal song, 

 Such as not oft the brilliant dyes 

 Can boast attained by tropic skies. 



Sing, pretty bird ! thy sprightly lay 

 And sweet, thy plumage bright and gay, 

 Thy manners gentle, docile, mild, 

 Oft tempt us from thy native wild, 

 From feeding on the thistle's down, 

 To bear thee to the dingy town, 

 And there thy captive form include 

 In the lone cage's solitude. 



Sing, pretty bird ! Though captive, sing ; 

 Prune with sharp beak thy shining wing, 

 With cheerful heart and motion brisk 

 About thy wiry prison frisk ; 

 Hop on thy mistress' offered hand, 

 Take what she gives with motion bland. 

 The seed and sugar sweet, and pay 

 Her bounty with a merry lay. 



Sing, pretty bird ! I 'd rather see 

 And hear thee blithe, alert, and free, 

 And haunting unrestrained at will 

 The orchard's bloom, the thistly hill ; 





