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TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
The call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
And, if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETOX. (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
She came—she is gone—we have met—
(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,
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,
Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year,
On the banks of our river, I know,
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.
May even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice,