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CATHARINA.

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 ev'ning ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

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We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was 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 esteein'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,

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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 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.

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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. ̈

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THE

MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A HERMIT (or if chance you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who liv'd retir'd
As hermit could have well desir'd,
His hours of study clos'd at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,

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Stoppled his cruise, replac'd his book
Within it's 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 evʼningtide.

Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fring'd 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

In hope to bask a little yet,

pace,

Just reach'd it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial, sirs! Learns something from whate'er occurs

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