SHE came--she is gone-we have met

And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment it set,

And seems to have risen in vain. Catherina has fled like a dream

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pase.

The last evening-ramble we made,

Catherina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

TE

We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was charm’d with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness'd so lately her owi.

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 esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more, And ev'n to myself never seemd

So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed

In number the days of the year,. Catherina, did nothing impedė,

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 embellish'd or rude

Tis nature alone that we love.
Tbe achievements of art may amuse,

May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies diffuse-

A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess

Catherina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her sensible choice!

S. 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 wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

COWPER.

Ocoocoo

CHAP. XXXVII.

THE EVENING WALK.

A TRUCE to thought and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or thro' the shelving wood,
Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,

As well we may,

the.

graces infinite

Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights, and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read and read
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please and something to instruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye

A little monitor presents her page
Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun :
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,
And sheds her lasting perfumes, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,
Still shelter'd and secure.

And so the storm
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily spares. A thousand blows
That shakes the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folks feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.

But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
The sleepy crocus, and the stairing daisy,
The courtier of the sun. What see we there?
The love-sick cowslip, that her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And soft-eyed primrose. Dandelion this,
A college youth that Nashes for a day
All gold : anon he doffs his gaudy suit,
Tauch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine.

Then mark
The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never ljfts an eye all day.

How gay this meadou Like a gamesome boy New-cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he

All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars
Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,
As king.cups here are scatter'd, interspers’d
With silver daisies.

See, the toiling swain With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought To win the glory of the barren waste ! For what more noble than the vernal furze With golden baskets hung? Approach it not, For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords Drawn to defend it. Tis the treasury Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his haud, And quaff the subtle ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There, Oberon His gallant train leads out, the while his torch The glow-worm lights and dusky night illumes. And there they foot it featly round, and laugh. The sacred spot the superstitious ewe Regards, and bites it not in reverence. Anon the drowsy clock tolls One-the cock. His clarion sounds—the dance breaks off the lights Are quench'd the music hush'd—they speed away Swifter than thought, and still the break of day Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves Her flimsy web, while sober reason sits, And smiling wonders at the puny work, A net for her; then springs on eagle wing, Constraint defies, and soars above the sun.

But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze

Ee