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A blemish, or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state ;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar
And tumult, and intestine war.

The love that cheer's life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspired the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure.
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shows love to be a mere profession ;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

HE swallows in their torpid state,

And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.

But man all feeling and awake

The gloomy scene surveys,
With present ills his heart must ache,

And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn,
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bow'rs, And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,

To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear that speaks regret

Of happier time appear,
A glimpse of joy that we have met

Shall shine and dry the tear.

BOADICEA :

AN ODE.

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HEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke,

Full of rage and full of grief.

Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish— write that word

In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre,

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;

Dying, hurld them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due ;
Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

heard before,

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT.
N Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded :

Ah, hapless wretch ! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease ;
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out;
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine !
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against ev'ry rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough ;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

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When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there ?
No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses.

You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insir uation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he ;
And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think-
Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon't !)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't !

A poet, in his evening walk,
O’erheard and check'd this idle talk :
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong ;
Your feelings, in their full annount,
Are all upon your own account.
You in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed ;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,

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