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CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

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, Our progress 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 Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness'd 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 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 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.

The 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

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 wish or to fear,

And ours will be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

THE

MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TA LE.

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 bill
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 occursAnd hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game,

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