Then April, with her fifter May, Shall chafe him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours.


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

A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall fhine and dry the tear.




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 esteem,
That will not fo fuddenly pass.

The laft evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progrefs 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 she had fung,
And gave them a grace fo divine,
As only her musical tongue

Could infufe into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I efteemed

The work of my fancy the more,

And ev❜n to myself never feemed
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 clofe 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 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, diffufe
A lafting, a facred delight.

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Since then in the rural recefs

Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it ftill be her lot to poffefs

The scene of her fenfible choice!

To inhabit a manfion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing fteeds, And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that the 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 fuits her to roam,

She will have juft the life the prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,

And ours will be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

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A HERMIT (or if 'chance hold


That title now too trite and old)

A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well defired,

His hours of study closed at last,
And finished his concife repast,
Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its cuftomary nook,

And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of fweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To ferious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fringed his hill,
Shades flanting at the clofe of day
Chilled more his elfe delightful way,
Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,

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