Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The fun of that moment is set,

And feems to have risʼn in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanifhes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and efteen
That will not fo fuddenly pafs.

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 she had fung,
And gave them a grace fo divine,
As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

"

The longer I heard, I efteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And ev'n to myself never feem'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 fweeter 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 embellifh'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amufe,
May ev'n our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse
A lafting, a facred delight.

Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her fenfible choice!

To inhabit a manfion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that fhe leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with fcenes that new rapture inspire

As oft as it fuits her to roam,

She will have juft the life fhe prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,

And ours will be pleasant as her's,

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 hermits could have well defir'd,
His hours of study clos'd at last,
And finish'd his concife repaft,
Stoppled his cruife, replac'd his book
Within its customary nook,

And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of fweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fring'd his hill
Shades flanting at the clofe of day
Chill'd more his elfe delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A weftern bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,

In hope to bafk a little yet,

Just reach'd it when the fun was fet.
Your hermit, young and jovial, Sirs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he faid, my mind computes
The real worth of man's purfuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,

Imagination to his view,

Prefents it deck'd with ev'ry hue
That can feduce him not to spare
His pow'rs of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On fo defirable an end.

Ere long, approach life's evening fhades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
Which firft engag'd him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide

But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitlefs chafe be loft,
Must be decided by the worth

Of that which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles purfu'd, whate'er th' event,
Muft caufe him fhame or difcontent;

« AnteriorContinuar »