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THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
That spaniel found for me.)
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
His lilies newly blown!
And one I wished my own.
To steer it close to land;
Escaped my eager hand.
With fixed considerate face,
To comprehend the case.
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
Beau tottering far before
And plunging left the shore.
Impatient swim to meet
The treasure at my feet.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, ETC.
Shall hear of this thy deed :
Of man's superior breed;
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSI.
Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
THE POET, THE OYSTER, ETC.
A poet, in his evening walk,
You, in your grotto work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
The noblest minds their virtue prove
His censure reached them as he dealt it,
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 sooth 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. For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace possessed these silent howers, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley musing slow; They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish woe!
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 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
Seemed graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.