The sober tints of even-tide,
Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please,
And set my wearied spirit free:
And one who takes delight in these,
Can never fail of loving thee!

* * * * *



TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

July 29th, 1803.

Dear boy, when you meet with a rose,
Admire you the thorns very much?
Or like you to play with a ball,
When the handling it blisters your touch!

Yet should it be firm and compact,
It is easy to polish it nice;
If the rose is both pretty and sweet,
The thorns will come off in a trice.

The thistle has still many more,
As visible too in our eyes,
But who will take pains with a weed,
That nobody ever can prize?