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And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time,

Both fad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd, Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;

Full blifs is blifs divine;

There dwells fome wish in ev'ry heart, And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly gild,

('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those lucklefs brains,

That, to the wrong fide leaning,

Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning,

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,

That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations,

Why, ftooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, haft thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

7

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd thro' regions denfe and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies, Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the fkies,

Though black and foul before.

Illuftrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,

Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So foon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left

may fhine

With equal grace below.

CATHARINA,

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;

The fun of that moment is fet,

And feems to have rifen in vain.

Catharina has filed like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not fo fuddenly pafs.

The last evening-ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progrefs was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

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