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Upborne into the viewless air,

It Aoats a vapour now, Impell’d thro’ regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow.

Ordain’d, perhaps, ere summer fiés,

Combin’d with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass’d my pen,

So soon to be forgot !

Phæbus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine

With equal grace below.

CATHARIN A.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

She came-she is gone, we have met

And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is fet,

And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream -

(So vanilhes 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 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. i

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; . VOL. II,

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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.

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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 vallies, diffuse

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.

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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 the prefers,

With little to wish or to fear, And ours will be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

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