Aſſume thy gloves, my moſt enchanting fair,
When next your ſtockings you begin to mend,
For though full white the hoſe, they yet appear
As ſaffron yellow, near thy lily hand.
As conſtant as your all obedient thread
Does thy bright needle's devious path purſue,
So does each thought of my poor brainleſs head
For ever dwell, divineſt nymph, on you.
Oft as thy needles pierce the yielding hoſe,
So oft thy beauties pierce my yielding breaſt:
Oh then compaſſionate my deep felt woes,
And bid awhile the poliſh'd needle reſt.
Or if one idle minute you diſdain,
On me be exerciſ'd your mending art,
Yes, lovely maid, to eaſe of my pain,
Come, darn the hole that rankles in my heart.
Salem Gazette, August 26, 1800.
THE WHITE CLOVER.
BY A LADY OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.
THERE is a little perfum'd flower,
It well might grace the lovliest bower,
Yet poet never deign'd to sing
Of such a humble, rustic thing.
Nor is it strange, for it can show
Scarcely one tint of Iris' bow:
Nature, perchance, in careless hour,
With pencil dry, might paint the flower;
Yet instant blush'd, her fault to see,
So gave a double fragrancy;
Rich recompence for aught denied!
Who would not homely garb abide,
If gentlest soul were breathing there,
Blessings through all its little sphere?
Sweet flower! the lesson thou hast taught,
Shall check each proud, ambitious thought,
Teach me internal worth to prize,
Though found in lowliest, rudest guise.
Salem Gazette, June 27, 1815.