So short liv'd are the lovely tribes They bud, blow, wither, fall, and die, And thus, my dear, must ev'ry charm, Sickness will change the roseate hue, And But as that fragrant myrtle wreath \/ Will all the rest survive, So shall the mental graces still live. Through endless ages live. COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. AND wherefore do the poor complain ? The rich man ask'd of me, Come walk abroad with me, I said, And I will answer thee. 'Twas ev'ning, and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well, And yet were very cold. We met an old bare-headed man, 'Twas bitter cold, indeed, he said, At home no fire had he, And therefore he had come abroad To ask for charity. We met a young bare-footed child, She said her father was at home, And therefore was it she was sent We saw a woman sitting down Upon a stone to rest, She had a baby at her back Another at her breast: I ask'd her why she loiter'd there The wind it was so chill? She turn'd her head and bade the child, That scream'd behind, be still. She told us that her husband serv'd And therefore to her parish she We met a girl-her dress was loose, And sunken was her eye, Who with the wanton's hollow voice I ask'd her what there was in guilt I turu'd me to the rich man then, You ask'd me why the poor complain, EPIGRAM ON DRAMATIC UNITIES. ON Unities of Place and Time, For he whose characters delight, I care not where his scenes are hurl'd, SONNET ON THE DEATH OF A CANARY BIRD. FAR from the sunny isle, and vine-hung grove, Oft shall the pensive maid those notes recall, Mrs. West. THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER. WHY should our joys transform to pain? A plague of iron prove? 'Tis strange the wond'rous charm that binds In vain I sought the wond'rous cause, |