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But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The winding of the stream.
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,
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND THE
thus to be recorded :-
Than with a tenderness like mine,
When cry the botanists, and stare,
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
A poet, in his evening walk Ol’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 amount, Are all upon your own account.
“You, in your grotto-work enelos’d, Complain of being thus expos'd:
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
“ And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
their owner half divine. His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. Oh, 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! This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please. 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,
While Peace possess’d these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn,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;
But not like me to nourish woe !
Alike admonish not to roam ;
And those of sorrows yet to come.
THE WINTER NOSEGAY. Whar 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 sunny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead. "Tis a bow'r of Arradian 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 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 grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows,
The truth of a friend such as you.