He left it-but he should have ta'en Fast set within his own. Maria weeps-the Muses mourn- The cruel death he died. THE ROSE. The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd, The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. : The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it feem'd to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was, And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow refign'd. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile, And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile. THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. ΤΟ MRS. THROCKMORTON. MARIA! I have ev'ry good For thee with'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme. To wish thee fairer is no need, What favour, then, not yet possess'd, In wedded love already blest, To thy whole heart's defire? None here is happy but in part; There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart, 1 That with, on some fair future day, ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. PATRON of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong fide leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning. Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow. Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies, Though black and foul before. Illustrious drop! and happy then Phœbus, if such be thy design, To place it in thy bow, |