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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......
BY THE LATE WILLIAM GROVE, ESQ.
THE ROSE AND THE PERIWINKLE.
How hard my fate, exclaims a Rose,
And blushing meet the golden gleam.
Scant is the portion Nature gives
To me, unhappy flower! she cries,
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,
By Flora's fairest Handmaids wove,
Yon hardy plant, that creeping spreads,
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,
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,