A poet, in his evening walk,
O’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 enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Şave when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop 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 divine.

His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed 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 quivering to the breeze, Might soothe 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 every where,

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While peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,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.

I bring

'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

STATE.

The lady thus addressed 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,