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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!

VI. Me fruitful scenes and

prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.


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1. What tiáturë, 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


shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the

Though abroad they are frozen and dead,


'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,
A fortress to wbich 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 lady thus aậdressed her spouse-
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no' means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,


Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him, come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door,
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf the lady cried,
(And raised her voice, and frowned beside)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise,
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride, wirip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl,
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be feared,
As to be wantonly incurred,

To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the bappiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something every day they live,
To pity and perhaps forgive.
But if infirinities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a sense impaired,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all, that must create
The confort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and intestige war.

The love, that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention;
But lives, when that exterior grace,
Which first inspired 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.




Forced from home and all its pleasures,

Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er'the raging billows borte.
Men from England bought and sold me,,

Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though theirs they hare enrolled me,

Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thonght as free' as ever,

What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever,

Me to toriure, ine to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion

Cannot forfeit nature's claim;

differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all creating nature

Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours'must dress the soil,

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