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TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

I.

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

The keeneft frost that binds the stream
The wildeft wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor feared by them
Secure of their repose.

III.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;

With present ills his heart must ake,
And pant for brighter days.
IV.

Old winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn;

But lovely spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

296

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

V.

Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chafe 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 fhine 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 fun of that moment is fet,

And feems to have rifen in vain.

Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and efteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.

The laft 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 fweet to Maria and me,

Who had witneffed fo lately her own.

My numbers that day fhe had fung,

And gave them a grace

As only her musical tongue

fo divine,

Could infufe into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteemed

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 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 all that the city can show.

So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging tafte 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 lafting, a facred delight.

Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it ftill be her lot to poffefs

The scene of her fenfible choice!

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