And thou, secure from all alarms, Of thundering drums, and glittering arms, May Newton with renew'd delights CATHARINA. TO MISS STAPLETON, NOW MRS. COURTENAY. SHE came-she is gone-we have met- The last evening ramble we made, Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused 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, Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd 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 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 even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess The scene of her sensible choice! 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, She will have just the life she prefers, CATHARINA: THE SECOND PART. ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ. JUNE, 1792. BELIEVE it or not, as you chuse, The doctrine is certainly true, And poets are oracles too. I did but express a desire, To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, Such prophecy some may despise, Maria' would leave us, I knew, To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view Catharina the Queen of the Hall. And therefore I wish'd as I did, And therefore this union of hands; Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry, Amen! to the bans. Since therefore I seem to incur How soon I can make her a Mother. 1 Lady Throckmorton. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORfolk, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd O welcome guest, though unexpected here! But gladly, as the precept were her own; My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, S. C.-10. F |