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The rose had been wash’d, just washid in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
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 flourishing 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,
Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way, While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.
One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love; The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And soothed the listening dove:
Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Shall cheer our latest age :
While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there;
Those ills, that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shared with thee.
When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hovering near,
And know no other fear.
'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side, Resolved a union form’d for life
Death never shall divide.
But oh! if, fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought,) Thou couldst become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot,
No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak; Denied the endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break.
Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.
A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
and the brood is safe ; (For ravens, though, as birds of omen, They teach both conjurors and old women To tell us what is to befall, Can't prophesy themselves at all ) The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,
And destined all the treasure there
'Tis Providence alone secures
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning;
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations ;