Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies, Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies, 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!
Phœbus, if fuch be thy design, To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may fhine With equal grace below.
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!) Bur has left a regret and esteem That will not fo fuddenly pass.
The laft evening ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progrefs was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh..
We paus'd under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone
Lefs fweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd fo lately her own..
My numbers that day she had fung, And gave them a grace fo divine,
ImAs only her mufical tongue
Could infufe into numbers of mine.. By
The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And ev❜n to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here; For the close woven arches of limes, On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show..
So it is, when the mind is endued With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embellifh'd or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amufe, May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse A lasting, a facred delight.
Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it ftill be her lot to poffefs
The scene of her fenfible choice!
To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that the leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire As oft as it fuits her to roam,
She will have just the life the prefers, With little to wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who liv'd retired As hermits could have well defired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concife repaft, Stoppled his crufe, replac'd his book Within its customary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share The fober cordial of fweet air, Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To ferious thought at evening-tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees that fringed his hill Shades flanting at the close of day Chill'd more his elfe delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still funny fide, And right toward the favour'd plase Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
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