[Aug. 1, 
Original Poetry. 
3& 
What tender hand that rears the humblest 
flower, 
And shields its sweetness from the threat filing 
show’r, 
But loves the infant blossom it protects. 
And many a brighter tree with scorn rejects ? 
No wonder, then, that thou, sweet Child, 
shoulu’st prove 
The fond attentions of maternal love. 
Whose early charms, to features not* confin’d. 
Already speak the graces of the mind. 
But when from scenes which purest souls ad¬ 
mire, 
Beauty, and taste, and innocence retire, 
At once from every gay amusement part. 
Yet bear to solitude a sprightly heart; 
There only rich in innocence and truth, 
Learn matron duties in the bloom of youth. 
Virtue, like this, must real wonder raise, 
Ami by avoiding, will create its praise: 
Nor thou, my sister, slight an humble muse. 
That loves, from worth like thine, her theme 
to choose. 
The parent rose, that bends with blushing 
pride, 
O’er the soft bud that clusters to its side, 
More lovely seems, than where the stalk has 
grown, 
A single sweet attractive, hut alone ; 
For pleasing *tis to view the ripened flow’r 
Expose its beauties to tlie sun-beam’s 
power, 
As if content its silken leaves should feed 
For the iresh opening bud to form a shade. 
Thus, Mary, when with youth and beauty 
blest. 
You clasp your smiling infant to your breast, 
Like the sweet rose a softer grace you gain, 
Which past the bloom of youth shall still re¬ 
main. 
THE MAGPIE AND HER BROOD. 
A FABLE, 
From the Tales ofBonaverdure desSeriers , 
Valet de Chambrc to the Queen of Na¬ 
varre. 
How anxious is the pensive Parent’s thought! 
How blest the fav’rite fondling’s early lot! 
Joy strings her hours on Pleasure’s golden 
twine, 
And Fancy forms it to an endless line. 
But ah ! the charm must cease, or soon or 
late, 
When chicks and muses rise to woman’s 
state. 
The little tyrant grows in turn a slave, 
And feels the soft anxiety she gave. 
This truth, my pretty friend, an ancient wit, 
Who many a jocund tale and legend writ. 
Couch’d in that age’s unaffected guise, 
When fables were the wisdom of the wise. 
To careless notes I’ve tun’d his gothic style ; 
Content ifyou approve, and Suffolk smile. 
Once on a time a magpie led 
ei 
Her little family from home. 
To teach them how to earn their bread, 
When she in quest of a new mate should 
roam. 
She pointed to each worm and fly, 
That crept on earth or w inged the sky, 
Or where the beetle buzz’d she caLl’d. 
But all her documents were vain ; 
They would not budge, the urchin train 
But caw’d, and cried, and squall’d. 
They wanted to be back at nest, 
Close muzzled to mamma’s warm breast, 
And thought that she, poor soul! must sweat, 
Day after day, to find them meat; 
But madge knew,better things. 
My loves, said she, behold the plains, 
W here stores of food and plenty reigns ! 
I was not half so big as vou, 
W hen me my honour’d mother drew 
Forth to the groves and springs. 
She flew away—God rest her sprite ! 
Tho’ I could neither read nor write, 
I made a shift to live— 
So must you, too come, hop away*; 
Get what you can ; steal what y ou may : 
The industrious always thrive. 
Lord bless us cried the peevish chits, 
Can babes like us Ihe by their wits? 
With perils compass’d round, can we 
Preserve our lives or liberty ? 
How shall we ’scape the fowler’s snare, 
Or gardener’s tube erect in air ? 
If we but pilfer plums or nuts, 
The leaden hall will pierce our guts : 
And then, mamma, your tender heart will 
bleed 
To see your little Pies lie dead. 
My dears, said she, and buss’d their callow 
bills. 
The wise, by foresight, intercept their ills ; 
And you of no dull lineage came. 
To fire a gun it takes some time ; 
The man must load, the man must prime, 
And after that take aim. 
He lifts his piece, he winks his eye; 
’Twill then be time enough to fiy : 
You, out ol'reach, may laugh and chatter ; 
To bilk a man is no great matter. 
Aye ! but— But what ?— why, if the clown 
Should reach a stone to knock us down ? 
Why if he does, ye brats, 
Must not he stoop to reach the stone ? 
His posture warns you to be gone ; 
Birds are not killed like cats. 
Still, good mamma, cur case is hard ; 
The rogue, yon know, may come prepar’d, 
A huge stone in his fist [ 
Indeed ! my youngsters, madge replies, 
Ifyou alreadv are so wise, 
V ~ 7 
Go, cater where you list. 
H.W; 
31EMOIRS 
