And your fine sense, he said, and yours, Deserves not, if so soon offended, You, in your grotto work enclos'd, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should drop and wither where they grow, The noblest minds their virtue prove His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. I. OII happy shades-to me unblest ! And heart that cannot rest, agree' II. This glassy stream, that spreading pine But fix'd, unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where, And slights the season and the scene. IV. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs V. The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley, musing, slow ; They seek like me the secret shade, VI. Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste THE WINTER NOSEGAY 1. 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 VOL. 1 18 See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead, II. "Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the cline Those pinks are as fresh and as gay See how they have safely surviv'd MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE. THE Lady thus address'd her spouse- Those hangings with their worn out graces, They overwhelin me with the spleen. (And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside,) Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing— Alas! and is domestick stife, A blemish or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spar'd, The comfort of the wedded state; And tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserv'd by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exteriour grace, Which first inspir'd the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils, it would gladly cure : But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT FORC'D from home and all its pleasures To increase a stranger's treasures, But though slave they have enroll'd me, ས----དལ |