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CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.
Mexcator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit,
Lene sonat liquidumque roeis Euphelia chordis,
Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia criues,
Cum dixit mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. Namque lyram juxtii positam cum carmine vidit,
Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram.
Et miscent numeris murmura maesta ineis, Dumque tuae memoro laudes, Euphdia, forma,
Tota anima interea pendet a bore Chlbes.
IV. Subrubet ilia pudore, et contrahit altera frontem,
Me torquiit mea mens conscia, psallo, tremoi Atque Cupidinea dixit Dea cincta corona,
Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THK 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,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all-feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
And whispers your return.
Shall chase him from the bowers.
To crown the smiling hours.
Ami, if a tear, that speaks regret''
Of happier times, appear,'
Shall, shine and dry the tear.
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, pur progress was often delayed
By the nightingale warbling nigh,
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charmed with a tone
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witnessed so lately her own.
My numbers that day she Bad 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 ev'n to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the/pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the yea/, 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, Then, whether emheltished 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
Catbarina 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 Philomels 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,
With little to wish or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE MORAUZER CORRECTED.
A Hermit (or if 'chance you hold