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WHAT nature, alas ! has denied

To the delicate growth of our ille, Art has in a measure fupplied,

And winter is deck'd with a sinile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that funny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.


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Tis a bow'r of Arcadian fweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats,

From the cruel affaults of the climc. 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 bofom of May.

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See how they have safely surviv'd

The frowns of a fky so severe, Such Mary's true love that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year.


The charms of the late blowing rose,

Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows

The truth of a friend, such as you..

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Necesary to tbe Heppiness of the Married State.

THE lady thus address'd her spouse
What a mere dungeon is this house,
By no means farge 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 seene,
They overwhelin me with the spleen.
-Sir Humphry 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 deadly 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 flight 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 domestic strife,
That forest ill of human life,
A plague so fittle to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly occurr’d;
To gratify a fretful paffie},
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair,
Will find occasion to tonear,
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 fo 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 itage,
Proof against fickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue from declenfion,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives, when that exterior 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 done of his,
Or foon expels him if it is.


An Invitation into the Country.


THE swallows in their torpid state,

Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early spring.


The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildeft wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.


But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys,
With present ills his heart must ach,

And pant for brighter days.


Old winter halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn,
But lovely fpring peeps o'er his head,

And whifpers your return.

V. Then

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