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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,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire

As oft as it suits her to roam,
She will have just 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.



A HÈRNIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now tooʻtrite and old)
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit, could have well defired,
His hours of study closed at laft,
And finished his concise repaft,
Stoppled his crufe, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The fober 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 flanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he fpied
A western bank's still sunny fide,

And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,
In hope to balk a little yet,
Just reached it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial, firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His objec chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it decked 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, earned too late, it wants the grace,
Which first engaged him in the chase.

True, answered 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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