My numbers that day she had fung,
And gave them a grace fo divine,
As only her mufical tongue
Could infufe into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteemed
The work of my fancy the more,
And ev'n 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 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
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 vallies, diffuse
A lafting, a facred delight.
Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it ftill be her lot to poffefs
The fcene of her fenfible choice!
To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing fteeds, 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 juft 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.
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 detired,
His hours of ftudy closed at last,
And finished his concise repaft,
Stoppled his crufe, replaced his book
Within its cuftomary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet 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
Chilled more his elfe delightful way.
Diftant a little mile he spied
A western bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Juft reached it when the fun was fet.
Your hermit, young and jovial firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it decked with every hue,
That can feduce him not to spare
His powers of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening fhades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earned too late, it wants the grace,
Which firft engaged him in the chase.
True, answered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide-
But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitless chase be loft,
Muft be decided by the worth
Of that, which called his ardour forth.
Trifles purfued, whate'er the event,
Muft caufe him shame or difcontent;
A vicious object ftill is worse,
Successful there he wins a curfe;
But he, whom ev'n in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at leaft in peace of mind,
And sense of having well defigned;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His fun precipitate defcend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompenfe his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
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