516

AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

Go, fellow!-whither ?-turning short about-
Nay. Stay at home-you're always going out.
'Tis but a step, Sir, just at the street's end.—
For what?—An't please you, Sir, to see a friend.-
A friend! Horatio cried, and seemed to start-
Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all heart.
my
And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw,
I'll see him too, the first I ever saw.

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
And was his plaything often when a child;
But somewhat at that moment pinched him close,
Else he was seldom bitter or morose.

Perhaps his confidence just then betrayed,

His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;
Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth,
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.
But not to moralize too much, and strain
To prove an evil, of which all complain,
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun,)
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
Once on a time an emperor, a wise man,
No matter where, in China or Japan,
Decreed, that whosoever should offend
Against the well-known duties of a friend,
Convicted once, should after wear

But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.
The punishment importing this, no doubt,
That all was naught within, and all found out. ̈.
O happy Britain! we have not to fear
Such hard and arbitrary measures here;
Else, could a law, like that which I relate,
Once have the sanction of our triple state,

Some few, that I have known in days of old, wo
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold;
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,
Might traverse England safely to and fro,
An honest man, close-buttoned to the chin,
Broad cloth without, and a warm heart within.

TO THE

REVEREND MR. NEWTON.

An Invitation into the Country.

THE swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feared by them,
Secure of their repose.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.x

CATHARINA.

Then April, with her sister May, plenina qila
Shall chase him from the bowers, plan

And weave fresh garlands every day,

To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,

A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine 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 fled 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 the tone,

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed 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 esteemed

The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en 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 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 embellished 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
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;
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 hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,st
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 desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finished his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set 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 slanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,