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FORESIGHT,

Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.

That is work which I am rueing-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,

We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the Flower is small,

Small and low, though fair as any:

Do not touch it! summers two

I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!

Pull as many as you can.

Here are Daisies, take your fill;

Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower :
Of the lofty Daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them—

Summer knows but little of them:

Violets, do what they will,

Wither'd on the ground must lie;

Daisies will be daisies still;

Daisies they must live and die:
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

A COMPLAINT.

There is a change-and I am poor;
Your Love hath been, nor long ago,
A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count !
Bless'd was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless, and hidden WELL.

A Well of love— it may be deep—
I trust it is, and never dry:

What matter? if the Waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.

-Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,
About Friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering it's faint undersong.

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