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And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow 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.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT,
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee wilh'd many a time, Both fad, 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 poffefs’d,
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole-heart's desire ?
but in part;
None here is happy but in
Full bliss is bliss divine; There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine.
That wilh, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfillid.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning,
Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, halt thou stol'n away A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now,
Impell’d thro' regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain’d, perhaps, ere summer fies,
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, Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came-she is gone-we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The fun of that moment is fet,
And seems to have rifen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening-ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.