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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.
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 esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more, An ev'n 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 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,
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 ber moments at home;

And with scenes that new raptures inspire,

As oft as it suits her to roam ;
She will have just the life she prefers,

With little to bope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as ners,

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 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,
Stoppled his cruise, replac'd 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 ev'ningtide.
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 pace,

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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, Imagination to his view Presents it deck'd with ev'ry 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 ev'ning shades, The glow, that fancy gave it, fades; And earn'd too late, it wants grace, That first engag'd him in the chase.

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
Of that, which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles pursu'd, 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 ev'n in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design’d;

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