Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Misses MORAL. the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry- But proper time to marry. THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY. NO FABLE. THE noon was shady, and soft airs My spaniel, prettiest of his race, * (Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,) Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads It was the time when Ouse display'd Their beauties I intent survey'd, With cane extended far I sought But still the prize, though nearly caught, *Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains And puzzling set his puppy brains But with a cherup clear and strong I thence withdrew, and follow'd long My ramble ended, I return'd; The floating wreath again discern'd, I saw him with that lily cropp'd My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet. Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, My dog shall mortify the pride But chief myself I will enjoin, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all. THE WINTER NOSEGAY. WHAT Nature, alas! has denied And winter is deck'd 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. "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 truth of a friend such as you." THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell For ever in my native shell; Ordain'd to move when others please, I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, And with asperity replied. 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, You that are but almost a fish, VOL. VII. Р |