THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhime.

To with thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells fome wish in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That with, on fome fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,
("Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those lucklefs brains,

That, to the wrong fide leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning,

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In conftant exhalations,

Why, ftooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, haft thou ftol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd thro' regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

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!

Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign,
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 fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !)
But has left a regret and efteem
That will not fo fuddenly pass.

The last 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 fhe 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 efteem'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 fhow.

So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging tafte 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,