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And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Where'er driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found,
Embellishing the scene around,
Should drop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love :
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
OH happy shades-to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene, that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
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.
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Her animating smile withdrawn,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
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 wo!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
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 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 clime
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
Those 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 surviv'd
The frowns of a sky so severe ;
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem'd grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows, The truth of a friend such as you.
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED
THE Lady thus address'd her spouse--
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means lurge 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, Engag'd 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 rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside,)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?
Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise,
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your fav'rite 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 domestick stife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something ev'ry day they live,
To pity, and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all, that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
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.
FORC'D from home and all its pleasures Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold;
But though slave they have enroll'd ma Minds are never to be sold.