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The SHRUBBERY,

Written in a time of JffliStion.

i.

O H happy shades! to me unblest,
Friendly to peace, but not to me,

How ill the scene that offers rest,.
And heart that cannot rest, agree!

2.

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,

.Might sooth afoul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.

3

But fixt unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the fame sadness ev'ry where,

And flights the season and the scene.

For For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs,

Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs.

The faint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing slow,

They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me, to nourish woe.

6.

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste,
Alike admonish not to roam,

These tell me os enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.

The

0

The WINTER.NOSEGAY.

r I

WHAT 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 funny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring,

Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

t. 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 clime. 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 3

See how they have safely surviv'd

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

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

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

The truth of a friend, such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE, Necessary to the Happiness of the Married State. THE lady thus address'd her spouse— What a mere dungeon is this house, 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

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,
Engag'd 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 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,1
Some people are more nice than wife,
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride, whip and spur,
Twas but a mile—yourfav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing—
Child! I am rather hard of hearing—

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