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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 taste from above,
Tis nature alone that we love.
And even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharjna alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clattsr 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,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to wish or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
A Hermit (or if'chance you hold
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
VOL. III. M
True, answered an angelic guide,
There was a time when ^Etna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below,
She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
The blooming groves, that girdled her around.
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,
In peace upon her sloping sides matured.
When on a day like that of the last doom,
A conflagration labouring in her womb,
She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,
While through the stygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song>
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man.
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,