There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That with, on fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly gild,

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

COWPER.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong fide leading,

Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning;

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, 'ftreams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In conftant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, haft thou ftol'n away
A poet's drop of ink ?

Upborne into the viewlefs air

It floats a vapour now,

1..

P

Impell'd thro' regions dense and rare, non

By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,

Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the fkies,
Though black and foul before.

Illuftrious drop! and happy then?!

Beyond the happiest lot,

Of all that ever pafs'd my pen og sidaas, or

So, foon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left

With equal grace below.

SHE

may

fhine

COWPER.

CHAP. XXXVI.

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

HE came-fhe 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-LM) (So vanishes pleasure, alas !)

But has left a regret and esteem

That will not fo fuddenly pass os arcis

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and 1,

Our progrefs was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paus'd under many a tree cutb

And much fhe was charm'd with a tone smala's

Lefs fweet to Maria and me, xar

Who had witness'd fo lately her own h

ល

And gave them a grace fo divine, id

divine'idro)

As only her mufical tongue ni chi an manch of Could infufe into numbers of mine.d dyppen'T

The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more, qhf. And ev❜n to myself never feem'done bromid 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 fweeter 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 embellifh'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 lafting, a facred delight.

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 ftreet-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.

COWPER.

CHAP. XXXVII.

THE EVENING WALK.

A TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or thro' the fhelving 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 afide the fweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chafte and good, and let us read
The living page, whofe ev'ry character
Delights, and gives us wifdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a bloffom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and fill find fomething new,"
Something to pleafe, and fomething to inftruct,
E'en in the noifome weed. See, ere we país
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor prefents her page

Of choice inftruction, with her fnowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects

The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day fun
She to no ftate or dignity afpires,

But filent and alone puts on her fuit,

And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which

We had not known there was a thing so sweet

Hid in the gloomy fhade. So when the blast

Her fifter tribes confounds, and to the earths Poth

Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd, wate She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still fhelter'd and fecure. And fo the ftorm

That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily fpares. A thousand blows

That

That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We leffer folks feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.

7

But come, we loiter. Pafs unnotic'd by
The fleepy crocus, and the flaring daily,
The courtier of the fun. What fee we there ?
The love-fick cowflip, that her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And foft-eyed primrofe. Dandelion this,
A college youth that flashes for a day

All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy fuit,

Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation ftrange,

Becomes a Reverend Divine.

Then markt

The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps

All night, and never lifts an eye all day.

How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy New-cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, hei All health and fpirits. Scarce fo many stars

Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,

As king-cups here are fcatter'd, interfpers'd;
With filver daifies.

See, the toiling fwains tog

With many a furdy ftroke cuts up at last!

The tough and finewy furze. How hard he fought

To win the glory of the barren wafter blind love) and A
For what more noble than the vernal furze Out Fay M
With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry bloffom has a troop of fwords:
Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury
Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet,
Each with a burhifh'd king-cup in his hand,

And