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CATHARINA.

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,
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 the leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,

To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire

As oft as it suits her to roam,
She will have just the life she 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 desir'd,
His hours of study clos'd at last,
And finidh'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruise, replac'd his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet 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 slanting at the clofe of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.,
Distant a little mile he fpied
A western bank's still funny fide,
And right toward the favourd place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,

In hope to balk a little yet,
Just reach'd it when the sun was fet.

Your hermit, young and jovial, Sirs !
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view,
Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long, approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
Which first engag'd him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's kide
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 th' event,
Must caufe hin shame or discontent;

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