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Charmed 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 Him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
I envy that unfeeling shrnb,
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish, 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 unlettered 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 touched, and crying—Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk, O'evheard and checked this idle talk,
VOL. III. I
And your fine sense, he said, and your's,
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
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 I How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart, that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
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,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
The safnt or moralist should tread
They seek like me the secret shade,
Me fruitful 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 art frozen and dead.
Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,