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Your hermit, young and jovial sirs !
True, answer'd an angelick guide,
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,
(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
SHE came-she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last ev’ning ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
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,
And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteemid
The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before. VOL. II.
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 endu'd
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,
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 hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
THE green house is my summer seat ; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat
Enjoy'd the open air ;
Liv'd happy pris'ners there.
And frolick where they list ;
And therefore never miss'd.
And Dick felt some desires,
A pass between his wires. The open
windows seem'd t'invite The freeman to a farewell flight:
But Tom was still confin'd :
To leave his friend behind.
You must not live alone-
Return'd him to his own.
THERE is a field, through which I often pass Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb’ring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier; Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceald Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead; And where the land slopes to its wat’ry bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop’d, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ; Nor autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray, With her chill hand the mellow leaves away ;