44
TO Mrs. P-------,
Deſcending in a whirlwind to the ground,
His pinions like the ruſh of waters ſound;
The faireſt of the fold he bears away,
And to his neſt compels the ſtruggling prey.
He ſcorns the game by meaner hunters tore,
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.
With lovelier pomp along the graſſy plain
The ſilver Pheasant draws his ſhining train.
Once on the painted banks of Ganges' ſtream,
He ſpread his plumage to the ſunny gleam:
But now the wiry net his flight confines,
He lowers his purple creſt, and inly pines.
To claim the verſe, unnumber'd tribes appear
That ſwell the muſic of the vernal year:
Seiz'd with the ſpirit of the kindly ſpring
They tune the voice, and ſleek the gloſſy wing:
With emulative ſtrife the notes prolong
And
