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THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
I wander'd on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
That spaniel found for me),
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
His lilies newly blown;
And one I wish'd my own.
To steer it close toʻland;
Escaped my eager hand.
With fix'd considerate face,
To comprehend the case.
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream,
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
And plunging left the shore.
Impatient swim to meet
The treasure at my feet.
Shall hear of this thy deed :
Of man's superior breed :
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch ! cundemn'd to dwell
The plant he meant grew not far off,
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
A poet, in his evening walk,
sense, he said, and yours,
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Ou, happy shades—to me unbless'd !
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
And heart that cannot rest, agree !
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
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.
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
'Tis a bower 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.