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So short liv'd are the lovely tribes.
Of Flora's transient reign:
Then turn to earth again.
And thus, my dear, must ev'ry charm,
Which youth is proud to share, Alike this quick succession prove,
And the same truth declare.
Sickness will change the roseate hue, .'
Which glowing health, bespeaks ; And age
will wrinkle with its cares The smile on beauty's cheeks.
But as that fragrant myrtle wreath :
Will all the rest survive,
Through endless ages live.
COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
Nd wherefore do the poor complain? The rich nan ask'd of me, Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.
'Twas ev'ning, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet were very cold.
We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were few and white; I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night :
'Twas bitter cold, indeed, he said,
At home no fire had he, And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.
We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold; I ask'd her what she did abroad
The wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick in bed, And therefore was it she was sent - Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,
Another at her breast:
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there
The wind it was so chill ? She turn'd her head and bade the child,
That scream'd behind, be still.
She told us that her husband sery'd
A soldier far away,
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl-her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Address’d the passers-by;
I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her breast allure
She answer'd she was poor.
I turu'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he, You ask'd me why the poor complain,
And these have answer'd thee.
ON DRAMATIC UNITIES.
ON Unities of Place and Time,
Let critics show a school-boy's skill; Give me the bard, whose pow'rs sublime
Command my fancy at his will.
For he whose characters delight,
Who ev'ry passion can unfold,
Tho' infants in three hours grow old.
I care not where his scenes are hurld,
What lands his five acts may explore ; One—in each quarter of the world,
The fifth may be in all the four.
ON THE DEATH OF A CANARY BIRD.
Far from the sunny isle, and vine-bung grove,
My native soil, to Britain's temp?rate sky I came to learn the tale of hopeless love,
To chaunt its woes to Delia, and to die.
Oft shall the pensive maid those notes recall,
Whose varied melody did once engage,
As sad she gazes on my vacar: cage.
Can life's extinguish'd taper re-illume;
Thy angel Pity cannot break his tomb: Yet now such pow'r is lodg’d in thy soft eyes, One tender glance would clear the morbid gloom.
THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER.
Why should our joys transform to pain?
A plague of iron prove?
At such a loose from love.
In vain I sought the wond'rous cause,
And urg'd the schools in vain ;
A bright instructive scene.