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Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy

To comprehend the case.
But with a chorup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau trotting far beforc,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd,

Impatient swiin to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my

feet. Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superiour breed :
But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine,

To him who gives me all.




AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was hcard, though never heard before,

Complaining in a speech well worded.
And worthy thus to be recorded

Ah, hapless wretch ! condemned to dwell
For ever in my native shell ;
Ordain'd to move when others pleaso,
Not for my own content or ease •
But toss'd, and buffetted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be borne a stone,
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tonderness 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 sncer with scorn enough ;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare, , Did plants callid sensitive grow thero? 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 insinuation, 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, A many a gay unlotter'd spark, With curious touch examines me, If I can feel as well as ho; And when I bend, retiro, 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 ev'ning walk, O'erhoard, and check'd this idlo 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 amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Whore'er driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

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

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



1. OH happy shades to me unblest !

Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill tlio 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 Care

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

For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

peace possess'd 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 seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish wo!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam ;
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And thoso 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 VOL. I


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 clime While earth wears a mantle of snow,

Those 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 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'd grac'd with a livelier huc, And the winter of sorrow best shows,

The truth of a friend such as you.




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

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