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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.

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!)
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.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

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,

ין

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