Page To Philoclea, by the Rev. R. Potter. 475 To the same, by the same..... 477 To the Painter on Mrs. Longe's Picture, by the same.. 479 ORIGINAL POETRY. FABLE. BY THE LATE WILLIAM GROVE, ESQ. 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, See how the Sun's refulgent power While struggling Zephyrs rudely press, Yon hardy plant, that creeping spreads, 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 To cool for thee the parching air. No drenching rains, no chilling blast In Youth's luxuriant colours dress'd, And with its sweetness blend thine own. |