If all the plants that can be found Should droop and wither where they grow, The noblest minds their virtue prove His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. Он, happy shades-to me unblest! This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe 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 For all that pleased in wood or lawn, While peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE. THE lady thus address'd her spouse— They overwhelm me with the spleen. Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing- Will find occasion to forbear; And something every day they live And tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention ; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures, To increase a stranger's treasures, Men from England bought and sold me, But, slave though they have enroll'd me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. |