The DYING KID.

The DYING KID.

By the Same.

A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, To think yon playful kid must die; From crystal spring, and flowery mead, Must, in his prime of life, recede!

Erewhile, in sportive circles round She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; From rock to rock pursue his way, And, on the fearful margin, play.

Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, She saw him climb my rustic cell; Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright, And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood, To trace his features in the flood: Then skip'd aloof with quaint amaze; And then drew near, again to gaze.

See tells me, how with eager speed He flew, to hear my vocal reed; And how, with critic face profound, And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air, Deserves the gentle Delia's care; And tears bedew her tender eye, To think the playful kid must die. —

But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless aera flies? While violence and craft succeed; Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, And yield her purple gifts no more; Ah soon, eras'd from every grove Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.

No more those bow'rs might Strephon see, Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee; No more those beds of flow'rets find, Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.

Each wayward passion soon would tear His bosom, now so void of care; And, when they left his ebbing vein, What, but insipid age, remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of fate, That gave his life so short a date; And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!