ODE to a THRUSH. By Miss P*** SWEET warbler! to whose artless song Soft Music's native powers belong, Here fix thy haunt; and o'er these plains Still pour thy wild untutor'd strains, Still hail the morn with sprightly lay, And sweetly hymn the parting day: But sprightlier still, and sweeter pour Thy song o'er Flavia's favorite bower; There softly breathe the vary'd sound, And chant thy loves, or woes around. So may'st thou live securely blest, And no rude storms disturb thy nest; No bird-lime twig, or gin annoy, Or cruel gun thy brood destroy; No want of shelter may'st thou know, Which Ripton's lofty shades bestow; No dearth of winter berries fear, But haws and hips blush half the year.