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The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a
shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all
And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhime.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour, then, not yet possess'd,
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning,
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
.:. That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now,
Impell’d through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,
To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,