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,
Our progress was often delayed

By the Nightingale warbling nigh.

We paused under many a tree,

And much was she charm'd with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witness'd 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 esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more,

And e'en 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 aught 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.

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 would 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 lived retired

As hermit could have well desired,

His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd 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
Chill'd more his else delightful way;
Distant a little mile he spied

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

Just reach'd 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 deck'd 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, earn'd too late, it wants the grace

That first engaged him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost
Το urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth

Of that which call'd 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 design'd;
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 greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs, displaced from that retreat, Enjoy'd 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 miss'd.