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THE ROSE.

T

"HE rose had been wash’d, just wash'd in a show'r,

Which Mary to Auna convoy'd ;
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snapped it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart,

Already to sorrow resigned.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ;
And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

UNS that set and moons that wane,

Rise, and are restored again,
Stars that orient day subdues,
Night at her return renews.

S

Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth
Of the genial womb of Earth,
Suffer but a transient death
From the winter's cruel breath.
Zephyr speaks ; serener skies
Warm the glebe, and they arise.
We, alas ! Earth's haughty kings,
We, that promise mighty things,
Losing soon life's happy prime,
Droop and fade in little time;
Spring returns, but not our bloom ;
Still 'tis winter in the tomb.

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.

H

ERE Johnson lies—a sage by all allow'd,
Whom to have bred, may well make England

proud ;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim-grave, masculine, and strong,
Superior praise to the mere poet's song ;
Who many a noble gift from Heav'n possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth-by glory in the skies !

GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.

THI

HIS cap, that so stately appears,

With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears

Ambitious of brushing the sky : This cap to my cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied.

This wheel-footed studying chair,

Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,

In which I both scribble and doze, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,

And rival in lustre of that In which, or astronomy lies,

Fair Cassiopeïa sat :

These carpets, so soft to the foot,

Caledonia's traffic and pride !
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,

Escaped from a cross-country ride !
This table, and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,

And periwig nicely adjust:

This movable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired, and use, And charged with octavos and twelves,

The gayest I had to produce ;

Where flaming and scarlet and gold,

My poems enchanted I view,
And hope, in due time, to behold

My Iliad and Odyssey too :
This china, that decks the alcove,

Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : These curtains, that keep the room warm,

Or cool, as the season demands, Those stoves that, for pattern and form,

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands :

All these are not half that I owe

To One, from our earliest youth To me ever ready to show

Benignity, friendship, and truth; For Time, the destroyer declared

And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared,

Much less could he alter her mind.

Thus compass'd about with the goods

And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods

In many such fancies as these ; And fancies I fear they will seem

Poets' goods are not osten so fine ; The poets will swear that I dream,

When I sing of the splendour of mine.

THE FLATTING-MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

WHEN

THEN a bar of pure silver, or ingot of gold,

Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, It is pass'd between cylinders often, and rollid

In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears

Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show, Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,

And warm'd by the pressure is all in a glow.

This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain

The thump-after-thump of a gold-beater's mallet, And at last is of service, in sickness or pain,

To cover a pill from a delicate palate.

Alas for the Poet! who dares undertake

To urge reformation of national ill-
His head and his heart are both likely to ache

With the double employment of mallet and mill.

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,

Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,

And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine

As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows; For truth is unwelcome, however divine,

And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.

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