« PreviousContinue »
166 THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
Parted without the least regret,
Misses! the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry---
But proper time to marry.
DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
That spaniel found for me.)
Now wantoned lost in Aags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown!
And one I wished my own.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,
To comprehend the case.
But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble finished, I returned ;
Beau tottering far before,
And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropped
Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.
Charmed at the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed ;
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE
Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
A poet, in his evening walk,
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
His censure reached them as he dealt it,
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
OH, happy shades---to me unblest!
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,
Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please. But fix'd unalterable care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,
And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley musing slow; They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam ; These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
WINTER NOSEGAY. WHAT nature, alas ! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is decked with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the Aowers 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.