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Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

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

To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup 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 before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd

Impatient swim 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 superior 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.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

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. 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.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT.
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded :-

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell
For ever in my native shell ;
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease ;
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine !
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough:
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? 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,

VOL. VII.

P

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,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he ;
And when I bend, retire, 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 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
Save 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,

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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 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, 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.

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