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THE rofe had been wafh'd, juft wafh'd in a fhower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it feem'd to a fanciful view,

To for the buds it had left with regret, weep

On the flourishing bufh where it grew.

I hastily feiz'd it, unfit as it was,

For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,
And fwinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I fnapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, And the tear that is wip'd with a little addrefs, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.



MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhime,

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full blifs is bliss divine;

There dwells fome wish in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That wish, an fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly 'gild,

('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I with it all fulfill'd.


ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST dried in the sun.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong fide leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In conftant exhalations:

Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, haft thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions denfe and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,
To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before..

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SHE came-she is gone-we have met➡
And meet perhaps never again;
The fun of that moment is fet,

And feems to have risʼn in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream—
(So vanifhes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and efteen
That will not fo fuddenly pafs.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progrefs was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paus'd under many a tree,

And much fhe was charm'd with a tone,

Lefs fweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness'd fo lately her own.

My numbers that day fhe had fung,
And gave them a grace fo divine,
As only her musical tongue

Could infufe into numbers of mine.

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