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From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nought, that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate,
None thy pleasures can create,
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly, thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never ceasing strains
Phoebus or the muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing,
What has nature else to show
Godlike in his kind as thou?

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THE ROSE°

THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed,
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 5

And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.

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I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned; And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snapped it — it fell to the ground.

And such," I exclaimed, “is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resigned !

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“This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,

May be followed perhaps by a smile."

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THE DOVESO

I

REASONING at every step he treads,

Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads,

Are rarely known to stray.

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One silent eve I wandered late,

And heard the voice of love;

The turtle thus addressed her mate,

And soothed the listening dove:

III
“Our mutual bond of faith and truth,

No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth

Shall cheer our latest age:

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"While innocence without disguise,

And constancy sincere,
Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

And mine can read them there.

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"Those ills that wait on all below,

Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so,

As being shared with thee.

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VI

“When lightnings flash among the trees,

Or kites are hovering near,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,

And know no other fear.

VII

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" 'Tis then I feel myself a wife,

And press thy wedded side,

Resolved a union formed for life,

Death never shall divide.

VIII

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“But oh! if fickle and unchaste,

(Forgive a transient thought,) Thou could become unkind at last,

And scorn thy present lot,

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No need of lightnings from on high,

Or kites with cruel beak;
Denied the endearments of thine eye,

This widowed heart would break.”

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X

Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird,

Soft as the passing wind,
And I recorded what I heard,

A lesson for mankind.

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ODE TO APOLLO°

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN

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PATRON of all those luckless brains

That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning:

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And why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations;

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Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapor now,
Impelled through regions dense and rare

By all the winds that blow.

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Ordained, perhaps, ere summer flies,

Combined with millions more, To form an Iriso in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

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Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever passed my pen,

So soon to be forgot!

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Phæbus,o if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may

shine
With equal grace below.

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