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Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)
In being touched, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and checked this idle talk.
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 enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop 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,
prove their owner half divine. His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed 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 quivering to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
III. But fix d unalterable care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,
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While peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,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 slows
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
What nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is deeked 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. VOLI,
'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.
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIEJ
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 como,
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,