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So short liv'd are the lovely tribes.

Of Flora's transient reign:
They bud, blow, wither, fall, and die,

Then turn to earth again.

And thus, my dear, must ev'ry charm,

Which youth is proud to share, Alike this quick succession prove,

And the same truth declare.

Sickness will change the roseate hue, .'

Which glowing health, bespeaks ; And age

will wrinkle with its cares The smile on beauty's cheeks.

But as that fragrant myrtle wreath :

Will all the rest survive,
So shall the mental graces still

Through endless ages live.

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Nd wherefore do the poor complain? The rich nan ask'd of me, Come walk abroad with me, I said,

And I will answer thee.

'Twas ev'ning, and the frozen streets

Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well,

And yet were very cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,

His locks were few and white; I ask'd him what he did abroad

In that cold winter's night :

'Twas bitter cold, indeed, he said,

At home no fire had he, And therefore he had come abroad

To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,

And she begg'd loud and bold; I ask'd her what she did abroad

The wind it blew so cold.

She said her father was at home,

And he lay sick in bed, And therefore was it she was sent - Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down

Upon a stone to rest,
She had a baby at her back

Another at her breast:

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there

The wind it was so chill ? She turn'd her head and bade the child,

That scream'd behind, be still.

She told us that her husband sery'd

A soldier far away,
And therefore to her parish she

Was begging back her way.

We met a girl-her dress was loose,

And sunken was her eye,
Who with the wanton's hollow voice

Address’d the passers-by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt

That could her breast allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse?

She answer'd she was poor.

I turu'd me to the rich man then,

For silently stood he, You ask'd me why the poor complain,

And these have answer'd thee.



ON Unities of Place and Time,

Let critics show a school-boy's skill; Give me the bard, whose pow'rs sublime

Command my fancy at his will.

For he whose characters delight,

Who ev'ry passion can unfold,
Makes me forget time's tardier flight,

Tho' infants in three hours grow old.

I care not where his scenes are hurld,

What lands his five acts may explore ; One—in each quarter of the world,

The fifth may be in all the four.



Far from the sunny isle, and vine-bung grove,

My native soil, to Britain's temp?rate sky I came to learn the tale of hopeless love,

To chaunt its woes to Delia, and to die.

Oft shall the pensive maid those notes recall,

Whose varied melody did once engage,
And oft the tear of kind regret shall fall,

As sad she gazes on my vacar: cage.
Yet, gentle mourner, not thy tears or sighs,

Can life's extinguish'd taper re-illume;
And when for thee despairing Strephon dies,

Thy angel Pity cannot break his tomb: Yet now such pow'r is lodg’d in thy soft eyes, One tender glance would clear the morbid gloom.

Mrs. West,


Why should our joys transform to pain?
Why gentle Hymen's silken chain

A plague of iron prove?
'Tis strange the wond'rous charm that binds
Millions of hands, should leave their minds

At such a loose from love.

In vain I sought the wond'rous cause,
Rang’d the wild fields of nature's laws,

And urg'd the schools in vain ;
Then deep in thought, within my breast
My soul retir’d, and slumber dress’d,

A bright instructive scene.

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