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 funny fhed,

Where the flow'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 the retreats

From the cruel affaults of the clime.

While earth wears a mantle of fnow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the faireft and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
III.

See how they have safely furviv'd
The frowns of a sky so fevere;
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem grac'd with a livelier hue,

And the winter of forrow best shows
The truth of a friend fuch as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

THE lady thus addrefs'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 fuch an antiquated scene,

They overwhelm me with the spleen!
Sir Humphry, fhooting 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 fo deaf, the lady cried,

(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd befide) You are fo fadly deaf, my dear,

What fhall I do to make you hear?
Difmifs poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wife-
For one flight trefpafs all this ftir?
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 proteft 'tis past all bearingChild! I am rather hard of hearingYes, truly-one must scream and bawlI 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 foreft ill of human life,
A plague fo little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful paffion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindeft and the happiest pair
Will find occafion to forbear;
And fomething, 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 fo little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all that must create

The comfort of the wedded state;
Inftead of harmony, 'tis jar

And tumult, and inteftine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against fickness and old age, Preferv'd by virtue from declenfion, Becomes not weary of attention;

But lives, when that exterior grace
Which firft infpir'd the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compaffionate or blind,
And will with fympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:
But angry, coarse, and harsh expreffion
Shows love to be a mere profeffion;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or foon expels him if it is.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

I.

THE fwallows in their torpid state

Compose their uselets wing,

And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.