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This elegant Rose had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps with a smile.

DRAWN BY RICHARD WE STALL,R. A. ENGRAVED BY EDWARD PORTBURY:

PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.

OCT 1,1817.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,

On the flourishivg bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile, And the tear that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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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 sach as you.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY,

1792.
Whence is it, that amazed I hear

From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course

Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,
And every season Spring.

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