You, in your grotto-work enclos'd, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should droop and wither where they grow. 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. I. OH, happy shades to me unblest This glassy stream, that spreading pine, But fix'd unalterable Care Forgoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where, And slights the season and the scene. IV. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, While Peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost it's beauties and it's pow'rs. V. The saint or moralist should tread Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come. THE WINTER NOSEGAY. I. WHAT Nature, alas! has denied And Winter is deck'd with a smile. From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead. II. Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets, 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. |