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Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd consid'rate face,
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
And plunging left the shore,
I saw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed :
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell
When, cry the botanists and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
many a gay unletter'd spark,
A poet, in his ev’ning walk,
fine sense, he said and yours,
You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
1. 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 quiv’ring to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable Care
Forgoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While Peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs.