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ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came-she is gone-we have met
And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have ris'n in vain. Catharina has filed like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and eteeni
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening 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 had witness'd so lately 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, And 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 all 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 ev'n our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and valleys, diffufe
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that the leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to wish or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
man, once young, who liv'd retir'd
In hope to balk a little yet,
Your hermit, young and jovial, Sirs !
True, answer'd an angelic guide,