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THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flow'r, And weigh'd down it's beautiful head,

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it--it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with it's owner awhile;

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.





MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time,

Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour, then, not yet possess'd,
Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,

("Tis blameless, be it what it may,)
I wish it all fulfill'd.





PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Endite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning;

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations;

Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,
To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot
Of all that ever pass'd my pen
So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may
With equal grace below.



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SHE came-she is gone-we have met—
To 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 esteern,
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last ev'ning ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd,

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness'd so lately 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 ev❜n 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 all 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 wish or to fear;

And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.




A TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or through the shelving wood,
Wind our uncertain way. Let Fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite

Of Nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights, and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please, and something to instruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor presents her page

Of choice instruction with her snowy bells,
The Lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day Sun.
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,

And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoops their high heads, that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still shelter'd and secure. And so the storm,
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak

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