The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it feem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs, CHAP. XXXIV. COWPER. THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. MARIA! I have ev'ry good For thee with'd many a time, To with thee fairer is no need, In wedded love already bleft, To thy whole heart's defire? None here is happy but in part; There There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,. And, doubtlefs, one in thine. That wifh, on fome fair future day, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,). I wish it all fulfill'd. CHAP. XXXV. ODE TO APOLLO. COWFER ON AN INK GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.. PATRON of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong fide leading, Injite much metre with much pains, Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,. Why ftooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, It floats a vapour now, Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies, To form an iris in the skies, So foon to be forgot! Phebu ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON. SHE came-fhe is gone-we have met And meet perhaps never again; The fun of that moment is fet, And feems to have rifen in vain. The laft ev'ning ramble we made, By the nightingale warbling nigh We paus'd under many a tree, And much fhe was charm'd with a tone Lefs fweet to Maria and me, Who had witness'd fo lately her own. My numbers that day fhe had fung, Could infufe into numbers of mine. So tuneful a poet before. Though Though the pleafures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impedo, Would feel herself happier here; For the clofe-woven arches of limes, On the banks of our river, I know, Are fweeter to her many times Than all that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is endued 'Tis Nature alone that we love. Since then in the rural recefs The fcene of her fenfible choice! From the clatter of ftreet-pacing fteeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, She will have juft the life she prefers, With little to wish or to fear, And ours will be pleasant as hers, 06 COWPER. A TRUC CHAP. XXXVII. THE EVENING WALK. TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields, As well we may, the graces infinite Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells, And sheds her lafting perfume, but for which Still fhelter'd and fecure.. And fo the ftorm. That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak, That |