Each character in every part

Sustained with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;
But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.

THE SHRUBBERY

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION

O 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 quivering to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if anything could please.

But fixed unalterable care

Forgoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness everywhere, And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace possessed these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

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!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY

WHAT Nature, 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 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.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE

THE lady thus addressed 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 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 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 happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;

And something, every 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 impaired,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
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,
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.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON

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 wildest wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor feared by them,
Secure of their repose:

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;

With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.

Then April with her sister May

Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times appear,
A glimpse of joy that we have met
Shall shine, and dry the tear,

TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA

MERCATOR, Vigiles oculos ut fallere possit, Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes; Lenè sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis Sed solam exoptant te mea vota Chlöe.

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines, Cum dixit mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram, Namque lyram juxtà positam cum carmine vidit, Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram.

Fila lyræ vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt,

Et miscent numeris murmura mæsta meis, Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ, Tota anima intereà pendet ab ore Chlöes.

Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem,
Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo ;
Atque Cupidineâ dixit Dea cincta coronâ
Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.

BOADICEA. AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.