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ODE TO HER BULLFINCH, by                    
First Line: Little wanton flutt'rer, say
Last Line: The pangs which do my bosom wound.
Subject(s): Bullfinches; Odes (as Poetic Form)

Little wanton flutt'rer, say
Whither wou'dst thou wing thy way?
Why those airy circles make,
All untry'd the thorny brake?
Various dangers lurking lie
In the guise of liberty;
See the wily fowler laid
Close beneath the hawthorn shade;
Mark his tyrannous intent,
Full on schemes of murder bent;
For within that rugged breast
Meek-ey'd Pity ne'er wou'd rest,
Nor the softer powers of Love
E'er that stoick heart could move,
Little trembler, hither fly,
In my bosom safely lie;
Sympathy and tenderness
Doth that bosom still possess;
There thy glossy plumes unfold
Plumes of azure and of gold;
While secure from every harm,
Pining want and rude alarm,
A willing captive still remain,
Nor with thy liberty to gain.

Whisp'ring Nature prompts to fly,
Seeking sweet society;
Or the gentler voice of Love
Bids thee range the mazy grove;
Ah! thy fond intent forbear,
Transient joys which end in care;
All a parent's anxious woe
Soon thy downy breast would know,
Lest the school-boy's truant eye
Shou'd thy tender young descry;
Lest the ruder vernal storm
Shou'd thy little nest deform,
Hither then, thou wanton, fly,
Bless thy soft captivity;
And lull with notes of soothing sound
The pangs which do my bosom wound.

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