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Catharina has filed like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not fo suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I, Our 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 fo 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 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 fhow.
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, diffuse
A lafting, 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,
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
And right toward the favoured place
Your hermit, young and jovial, firs!
True, answered an angelic guide,