My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine
As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteemed
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seemed
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 embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite;
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since, then, in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,

And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she 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 suits her to roam ;

She will have just the life she prefers
With little to hope or to fear,

And ours will be pleasant as hers

Might we view her enjoying it here.

CATHARINA

THE SECOND PART

ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.

BELIEVE it or not, as you chuse,

The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the Muse,
And poets are oracles too.

I did but express a desire

To see Catharina at home,

At the side of my friend George's fire,
And lo-she is actually come.

Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

And therefore attains to its end.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warmed
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was formed.

Maria would leave us, I knew,

To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief could we view
Catharina the Queen of the Hall.
And therefore I wished as I did,

And therefore this union of hands;
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry, Amen! to the banns.

Since therefore I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain
When making good wishes for Her,
I will e'en to my wishes again;
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life-

How soon I can make her a mother.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED

A TALE

A HERMIT or, (if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old),
A man once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finished his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace
In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reached it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs,
And "Hence," he said, "my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view

Presents it decked with every hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.

Ere long, approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades ;
And, earned too late, it wants the grace
Which first engaged him in the chase."
"True," answered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side,—
"But whether all the time it cost
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,

Must be decided by the worth

Of that which called his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curse;
But he whom, e'en in life's last stage,
Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid at least in peace of mind
And sense of having well designed;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent,
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late."

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

THE greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoyed the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never missed.

But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppressed;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.

The open windows seemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;

And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.

So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say,
"You must not live alone;

Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Returned him to his own.

I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau
If birds confabulate or no;

'Tis clear that they were always able

To hold discourse, at least in fable;

And even the child who knows no better
Than to interpret by the letter

A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon skull.

It chanced then, on a winter's day,
But warm and bright and calm as May,
The birds, conceiving a design

To forestall sweet St. Valentine,

In many an orchard, copse, and grove,
Assembled on affairs of love,

And with much twitter and much chatter

Began to agitate the matter.

At length a Bullfinch, who could boast
More years and wisdom than the most,
Entreated, opening wide his beak,
A moment's liberty to speak;
And, silence publicly enjoined,
Delivered briefly thus his mind :

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?