THE BLACK BIRD. A MAKARONY FABLE. BY JOHN HALL STEPHENSON, ESQ. IN concert with the curfew bell, An Owl was chaunting Vefpers in his cell ; A Black Bird, famous in that age, Hung dangling in a wicker cage; Like thofe good children of St. Francis, And took delight in Wanton Fancies. 5. 10 Whilft the bell toll'd, and the Owl chaunted, Every thing was calm and still; All nature feem'd rapp'd and enchanted, Except the querelous, unthankfull rill; 15 Unawed by this impofing scene, Our Black Bird the enchantment broke; And whistled the Black Joke. * Born 1718; dyed 1785. This lively unexpected motion Set nature in a gayer light; Quite over-turn'd the Monks devotion, I have been taught in early youth, By an expert Metaphyfician, And only match for superstition. How fine he curtfies! Make your bow; Thump your breaft foundly, beat your poll; Lo! he has tofs'd up a Ragout, To fill the belly of your foul. 20 25 30 35 Even here there are some holy men, Would fain lead people by the nose; 40 Did not a Black Bird, now and then, My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean, 45 Grazie a gl' inganni tuoi, Alfin refpiro, O Nice; Alfind' uno infedele Ebber gli dei pietà. TO MISS BY THE SAME. THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair, From thy bewitching fnares and thee: I feel for once this is no dream; I feel my captive foul is free; I cannot now, as heretofore, Put on indifference or difdain, To finother flames, that burn no more, Without a blush your name I hear, No tranfient glow my bosom heats; And, when I meet your eye, my dear, My fluttering heart no longer beats. Metaftafio. 5 10 15 I dream, but I no longer find Your form ftill present to my view; I wake, but now my vacant mind No longer waking dreams of you. Abfent, for you, no more I pine, But wander careless day or night; Prefent, no word, no look, no fign, Argues disturbance or delight. I hear your praise, no tender flame Now thrills refponfive through my veins ; No indignation, only shame, For all my former wrongs remains. I meet you now without alarms, I talk with ease about your charms, Whether in angry mood you rife, Or sweetly fit with placid guile, Vain is the lightning of your eyes, 20 25 30 35 And vainer ftill your gilded fmile. Loves, in your smiles, no longer play; Your lips, your tongue, have lost their art; Those eyes have now forgot the way That led directly to my heart. 40 Whether with grief the mind's diseased, Hills, woods, and lawns, and bleating flocks, 45 Without you, captivate me still, But dreary moors and naked rocks, I now spy faults, my lovely friend, 55 And yet, tho' free, I thought at first, With shame my weakness I confefs, My agonizing heart would burst, The agonies of death are lefs. Who would not, when his foul's opprefs'd, Gladly poffefs himself again? To pluck a ferpent from his breaft, Who would not bear the fharpeft pain? 60 |