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ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong fide leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.
Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations:
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before,
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 seems to have ris'n in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and efteeni
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
e 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 fung,
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
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, 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 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.