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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 fear'd 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.

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

And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.

236 TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

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.

ADDKESSED 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 delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,

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, 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 e'en 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; 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 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 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,

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 finish'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruise, 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

Chill'd more his else delightful way.

Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's still sunny side,

And right toward the favour'd place

Proceeding with his nimblest pace,

In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reached it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs—
And hence, he sa}d, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with every hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side—
But whether all the time it cost,
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,

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