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THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
And Winter is deck'd with a smile.
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
Seem graced with a livelier hue,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792.
WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
Have practised in the groves like thee,
Or sing'st thou rather under force
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
As thou to-day, put forth my song
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
To make e'en January charm,
THE POPLAR FIELD.
THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade,
Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
The change both my heart and my fancy employs,
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Он, happy shades-to me unbless'd!
Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Foregoes not what she feels within,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.
This moss-grown alley musing slow'; They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish wo!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string,
Some foe to his upright intent
But Pleasure wins his heart.
"Tis here the folly of the wise
Bound on a voyage of awful length
But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.