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V. Then April, with her fifter May,

Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours,

VI, And, if a tear, that speaks regret

Of happier times, appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

Shall fine and dry the tear.

CATHARINA.

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 filed like a dream

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem,

That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delayed

By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charmed with a tone Lefs sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witnessed 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 efteemed

The work of my fancy the more, And ev'n to myself never seemed

So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed

In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impedey

Would feel herself happier here; For the clofe 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 embellished or rude,

'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,

May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse

A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess

Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to poffefs

The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a manfion remote

From the clatter of ftreet-pacing Ateeds, 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 hers,

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 lived retired
As hermit could have well detired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finished his concise repaft,
Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fringed his hill,
Shades flanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Diftant a little mile he spied
A weftern bank's still funny fide,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,

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