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The seaman with sincere delight
His feathered shipmates eyes,
Than when he tows a prize.
And from a chance so new,
And may his hopes be true!
Not even birds can hide,
Whom nothing could divide.
Your matrimonial plan,
In company with man.
We English often show,
But wantonness and woe.
Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove,
Instruct us how to love.
SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,
INTO ITALIAN VERSE.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,
(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
SHE came---she is gone---we have met--
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
And much she was charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witnessed so lately her own.
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.
May even our wonder excite,
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,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to wish or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY,
THE swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
The gloomy scene surveys ;
And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers,
To crown the smiling hours.
And, if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
Distant a little mile he spied
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs !
True, answered an angelic guide,