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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 wo!

VI.

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.

I.
What Nature, alas ! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,

And Winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the fow'rs have the charms.of the spring,

Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

II. 'Tis a bow'r 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.

III.
See how they have safely survivid

The frowns of a sky so severe;
Such Mary's true love, that has livd

Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose

Seem'd grac'd 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 address’d 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,
Engag'd 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 rais'd her voice and frown'd beside)
You are so sadly deat, 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 fav’rite 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 fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear ;
And something, ev'ry 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 impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state ;
Instead of barmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and intestine war.

The love, that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue form declension,
Becomes not weary of attention ;
But lives, when that exterior grace,
Which first inspir'd the fame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure :

VoL, XXXVI, Z

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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.

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