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Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

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THE WOODCOCK.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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260

THE WOODCOCK.

While not a wing of insect-being floats,
And not a murmur moves the frozen air;
Yon' ice-clad sedge, with tremulous wave, denotes,
Amid the leafless copse, that life is there.
And lo, half-seen, the bird of russet breast
And duskier pinion, that had cleft the skies
Of wild inhospitable climes, in quest
Of the warm spring, his plamy labour plies.
Feed on, poor bird, beneath the sheltering copse;
And near thee may no wanton spaniel stray!
Or rising, when dim eve her curtain drops,
Ah! may no net arrest thy darkling way!
But long unpent by frost, o'erflow the rill;
And many an insect meet thy delving bill!