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The rose soon redden'd into rage,
And, swelling with disdain,
Appeal’d to many a poet's page
To prove her right to reign.
The lily's height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flow'r,
She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand,
The sceptre of her pow'r.
This civil bick'ring and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, e'er yet too late,
The pride of the parterre.
Yours is, she said, the nobler hue
And yours the statelier nien,
And till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deem'd a que
Thus sooth'd and reconciled, each secks
The fairest British fair,
The seat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.
THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.
Were basking hot and all in blow. A bee of most discerning taste Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd, On eager wing the spoiler came, And search'u for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on ev'ry side,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied,
But still in vain, the frame was tight
And only pervious to the light.
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind ;
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires ;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as she passes
The nymph between two chariot-glasses,
She is the pine-apple, and he
The silly, unsuccessful bee.
The maid who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets,
Like thine her appetite is keen,
But, ah ! the cruel glass between !
Our dear delights
are often such, Exposed to view but not to touch ; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine-apples in frames, With hopeless wish one looks and lingers, One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers ; But they whom truth and wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed.
STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.
thistle's downy seed
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date ;
For, caught and caged and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon pass'd the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of ev'ry ill !
More cruelty could none express,
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.
THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
HAT Nature, alas ! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime,
A fortress to which she retreats,
From the cruel assaults of the climes.
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so severe ;
Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late-blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend, such as you.
By no means large enough; and, was it,
Yet this dull room and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.
-Sir Humphry, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried
(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside),
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear ?
Dismiss poor Harry! he replies,
Some people are more nice than wise, -
For one slight trespass all this stir ?
What if he did ride, whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile—your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing-
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly—one must scream and bawl,
I tell you you can't hear at all;
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear’d,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear.
And something ev'ry day they live
To pity and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,