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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.

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.

Cowper.

VERSES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE ON A DESERT ISLAND.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, Solitude! where are the charms,
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh! had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again !
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.

My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

Cowper.

THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.

The pine-apples in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he passed;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And searched for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus, having wasted half the day,
He trimmed his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,

And disappointment all the fruit.

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The maid, who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;

Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between !

Our dear delights are often such, Exposed to view, but not to touch; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine-apples in frames; With hopeless wish one looks and lingers; One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers; But they, whom truth and wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed.

Cowper.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

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My Mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

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