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To Philoclea, by the Rev. R. Potter.

To the same, by the same.....

To the Painter on Mrs. Longe's Picture, by the same......

Miscellaneous Poetry
Satire
Translations
The Drama

CRITICISMS.

CATALOGUE

Page

475

477

479

483

502

504

506

511

Original Poetry.

VOL. IV.

B

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FABLE.

BY THE LATE WILLIAM GROVE, ESQ.
OF LICHFIELD.

THE ROSE AND THE PERIWINKLE.

How hard my fate, exclaims a Rose,
As waking to the noontide beam
Their silken folds her leaves disclose,

And blushing meet the golden gleam.

Scant is the portion Nature gives

To me, unhappy flower! she cries,
A few short days iny bloom survives,
Then changes, sickens, pales, and dies.

See how the Sun's refulgent power

The starveling Lily's bosom warms! Each ray that cheers HER Opening flower, Serves but to fade my transient charms.

While struggling Zephyrs rudely press,
And o'er my tender beauties rove,
Their busy wings disturb my dress,

By Flora's fairest Handmaids wove,

Yon hardy plant, that creeping spreads,
By the dank wall, its glossy green,
Nor Summer's blazing ardor dreads,

Nor Winter's desolating scene.

Ungrateful Favorite! quick replied

The list'ning Shrub, which near her grew, Blame not the Sun with wayward pride,

To whom thy praise, thy thanks are due,

The emerald sprays, that round thee dwell,
The rubies of thy leaf, so bright,
The gold, that studs thy honied cell,
Are but reflections of his light.

Full when he rolls the tide of day

He makes thy velvet blush his care, Bids gentle gales encircling play,

To cool for thee the parching air.

No drenching rains, no chilling blast

Thy halcyon hours are taught to know, When Winter lays the garden waste,

And sullen showers his silent snow.

In Youth's luxuriant colours dress'd,

Ere one of their soft tints is flown, 'Tis thine to seek some Virgin's breast,

And with its sweetness blend thine own,

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