Consolatory Rhymes to Mrs. East, On the Death of her Canary Bird. Since Kings, and Queens, and Duchesses must die, And crowns and frokins undistinguish'd lie; The Monarch justled by the saucy slave, And next a Queen's perhaps a Milk-maid's grave; Since all their flight to other climes must wing, And even signor Boschi cease to sing; Grieve not your Bird: for tho' no more his throat Melodious swells the sweetly-tortur'd note; Improperly we measure life by breath, He ceases not to be, who tastes of death. When life goes out, the Samian sages say, We only change our tenement of clay. The Quack, once fam'd for curing ev'ry ill, Lurks in a bolus, or informs a pill. The learned Dunce, whom science seem'd to shun, Hums thro' his next dull stage a bagpipe's drone; While Wits, more pert, the livelier notes become, And teaze, and torture still the tuneless hum. The wretch, who fatten'd on his neighbour's spoil, Now crawls a spider, swoln with fraud and guile: A softer form the gentle mind puts on, While harden'd hearts are petrify'd to stone. Perhaps your Captive now, on wings sublime, Once more beholds his friends, and native clime; Sees all his little race about him throng, And tells his raptures in a sweeter song: Or else his soul some Farinelli warms, And crouded theatres confess his charms; His cage, his silken wings, and untaught note, (All but his Mistress 'favours) quite forgot. So some poor Exile, long in bondage kept, Dead to his friends, and ev'n by strangers wept, Disdaining bondage, tho' in chains of gold, Breaks thro' his prison, by resentment bold: Yet if some gen'rous friend, of soul sincere, Soften'd his fate, or smooth'd his bed of care, Deep in his heart the grateful sense remains, And when he thinks on him, forgets his chains. Harmonious shade! what honours can atone Thy music murder'd, and thy spirit gone! By thy false guardian left to foes at large, O most unworthy the important charge! — What tho' no solemn mutes, of ghastly shape, Croud silent round thee, and look sad in crape; Yet shall thy Mistress 'tear adorn thy hearse, And all the Muse can offer, Fame and Verse: Fresh flow'rs shall deck thee with their earliest bloom, And yearly roses blossom on thy tomb. There too shall mournful Philomel complain, And on thy stone these lasting notes remain; "Beneath in silence sleeps, and ceas'd his song, The Farinelli of the feather'd throng: Of manners simple, uncorrupt of life, A friend to harmony, a foe to strife. This turf his Mistress to his mem'ry ow'd, And for his songs the gen'rous tear bestow'd."