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These, the poets all declare,
Lloyd's Evening Post.
THE MOUNTAIN VIOLET.
Sweet fragile flow'r, that bloom'st unsought,
And bloom'st by many an eye unseen, Thy beauty wakes my pensive thought,
And shews thee worthy of my theme.
Expanding wild, thy rich perfume
Impregnates sweet th'unhallow'd air, Which reekless on thy virgin bloom,
Sweeps not o'er thee more mild or fair.
Now brighten’d by the morning ray,
Luxuriant spreads thy grateful breast : Now ev’ning comes, with tyrant sway,
And chills thy little form to rest.
Sweet emblem of the soul-fraught mind,
Expos'd life's keenest storms to bear; Yet, like thee, tenderly refin’d,
And shrinking from ungenial air.
The ray which gilds with lucid gleam,
Is inward peace, which none can wrest; The ev’ning chill which shrouds the beam,
The sad reflection of the breast.
Like thee, too, from the vulgar eye,
The chasten'd mind shall live forlorn; For tho' no kindred soul may sigh,
In solitude there's none to scorn.
Dear flow'r, be thou my fav’rite sweet,
I'll rear with care thy lowly head, Save thy soft breast from guardless feet,
And court young zephyrs to thy bed.
Yet if perchance, in evil hour,
Some lawless hand invade thy shrine; Or nightly blast, with cruel pow'r,
Sap the short life which might be thine:
Ah! then with sad regret I'll kneel,
And try thy beauties lost to cheer ;
Nottingham Journal. TO A FRIEND Who pressed the author to marry for the sake of a
In vain with riches would you try
My stedfast heart to move;
For no less price than love.
Riches, indeed, may give me pow'r,
But not a cheerful mind;
On those whom love has join'd.
But should the itch of pow'r or state,
My views to riches carry,
Do any thing but marry.
Since, then, not wealth's deceitful shew
Can tempt me to this chain,
Duke of Dorset.
Swains, I hate the boist'rous fair,
Soft, unaffected, gentle be,
Let her not boast, like man to dare
With gentler sports delighted be
Nor pert coquet, nor formal prude,
From airs, from flights, from vapours free;
Her well-chose dress, in ev'ry part,
From all fantastic fashions free,
Loose flow her locks without constraint,
To all a goddess seem to be,
For a sequestered retreat, called the “ Bower of
Oberon," in a beautiful pleasure-ground.
Round these fair scenes direct your eyes,
Tremble, thou wretch, whose sordid breast