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From thy perch survey the fields
The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed,
And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 5
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned; And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I I snapped it — it fell to the ground.
"And such," I exclaimed, "is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resigned !
“This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,
May be followed perhaps by a smile."
REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
Are rarely known to stray.
One silent eve I wandered late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus addressed her mate,
And soothed the listening dove:
"Our mutual bond of faith and truth,
No time shall disengage,
Shall cheer our latest age:
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there.
"Those ills that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shared with thee.
Or kites are hovering near,
And know no other fear.
'Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side,
Resolved a union formed for life,
Death never shall divide.
“But oh! if fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought,) Thou could become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot,
“No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak;
This widowed heart would break.”
Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird,
Soft as the passing wind,
A lesson for mankind.
ODE TO APOLLO°
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN
PATRON of all those luckless brains
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning:
And why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapor now,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordained, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more, To form an Iriso in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
Phæbus, o if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
With equal grace below.