He left it but he fhould have ta'en That beak, whence iffued many a ftrain Might have repaid him well, I wote, Maria weeps the Mufes mourn― The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell; THE ROSE. The rofe 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 wet, And it feem'd to a fanciful view, Το weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing buth where it grew. I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was, And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow refign'd. This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs, 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 with'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme. To with thee fairer is no need, What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd, In wedded love already bleft, To thy whole heart's defire? None here is happy but in part; There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart, That wish, on fome fair future day, 1 ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. PATRON of all thofe lucklefs brains, Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, Apollo, haft thou ftol'n away A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions denfe and rare, By all the winds that blow. Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies, To form an iris in the fkies, Though black and foul before. Illuftrious drop! and happy then Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign, Give wit, that what is left With equal grace below. may fhine |