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Not altogether smiled on theirs.
father bird and mother
Misses ! the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry-
time to marry.
THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.
The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
I wander'd on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs * adorn'd with every grace
That spaniel found for me,)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse display'd
His lilies newly blown;
And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face,
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp’d
The treasure at my feet.
Charm’d with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed :
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
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 such as you.“
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
there? No matter when—a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish,