A Card Sent to a Lady, Who Lamented the Loss of a Curious Bird
M IRA , cease thy plaintive strains;
What though thy Bird of beauty's flown,
Still one Sister-grace remains,
Form'd to wait on thee alone;
On thee, round whom the rural choir
Undecoy'd by art attend:
Tuneful Robins hail thy fire,
And thy summer walks befriend.
Could Pythagoras persuade me,
I this tale would surely prove—
That the feather'd train who wait thee,
Once were victims of thy love.
What though thy Bird of beauty's flown,
Still one Sister-grace remains,
Form'd to wait on thee alone;
On thee, round whom the rural choir
Undecoy'd by art attend:
Tuneful Robins hail thy fire,
And thy summer walks befriend.
Could Pythagoras persuade me,
I this tale would surely prove—
That the feather'd train who wait thee,
Once were victims of thy love.
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