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A poet, in his evening walk,
You, in your grotto work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
The noblest minds their virtue prove
His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it,
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 quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,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 wo!
Me fruitless scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
· THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
What nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is decked with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the
spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'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.
See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.
MUTUAL FOR BEARANCE,
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED
The lady thus addressed her spouse