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For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her
times Than aught that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is endu'd
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,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
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.
To wing all her moments at home;
As oft as it suits her to roam;
With little to hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
His hours of study clos’d at last,
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs !
True,” answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side
But whether all the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth
THE FAITHFUL BIRD. The green-house is my summer seat; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat
Enjoy'd the open air ; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,
Liv'd happy pris'ners there.
And frolic where they list;
And therefore never miss'd.
And Dick felt some desires, That, after many an effort vain, Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
'The open windows seem'd t'invite
But Tom was still confin’d;
To leave his friend behind.
“ You must not live alone” —
Return'd him to his own.
Fandango, ball, and rout!
I tell you how a bird,
To liberty without.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
THERE is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb’ring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceald, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; And where the land slopes to its wat’ry bourn, Vide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ;
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
The Sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on Heav'n's topmast arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Or, with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang All Kilwick and all Dinglederry* rang.
Sheep graz’d the field; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain’d in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appear’d, The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz'd, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz'd, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, Then cours’d the field around, and cours’d it round
again; * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.