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And your fine sense, le said, and yours,
Whatover evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon oilended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes though short, arc far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto work enclos'l,
Complain of being thus exposi;
Yet nothing feel in that rough court,
Save when the knife is at your trvat,
Where'er driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeanish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found,
Enıbellishing the scene around,
Should drop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at ali- not you.
The noblest minds their virtue provo
By pity, sympathy, and love :
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And cach by shrinking show'd he felt it.



OII hanpy shades--to me unblest!

Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene, that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree'

This glassy stream, that spreading pino

Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.

III. But fix'd, unalterable Caro

Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness cv'ry where,
And slights the season and the scene,

For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

While peace possessid these silent bow'rs,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
They seck like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish wo!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike adimonish not to roilin ;
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And thiosc of sorrows yet to come.


WHAT Nature, alas ! has denied

To the delicate growth of our islo,
Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'il with a smile Vol. 1


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,

II. '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 clieno While earth wears a mantle of snow,

Those pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the fairest and sweetest, that blowy
On the beautiful bosom of May

See how they have safely surviv'd

The frowns of a sky so scvere ;
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd

Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose

Seem'd grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows,

The truth of a friend such as you.




TIE Lady thus address'd her spouse
What a niore dungeon is this house !
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yot 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 overwhelin me with the spleen.
Sir Humphrey, slooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark :
No doubt, my dear; I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at homo,
And shall expect him at the door,
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And rais'd 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;
Soine people are more nice than wise,
For one slight trespass all this stir ?
What if he did rido whip and spur, ,
'Twas but a mile--your fav’rite lorse
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 screarn 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 domestick stife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurrd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbcar;
And something ev'ry day they live,
To pity, and, perhaps, forgivo.

But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,

A blemish or a sense impair’d,
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
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 cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention ;
But lives, when that exteriour grace,
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with syinpathy 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 cxpels him if it is.




FORC'D from home and all its pleasures

Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er the raging billows boine.
Men from England bought and sold me,

Paid my price in paltry gold; But though slave they have enroll'd ine,

Minds are never to be sold

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