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The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it feem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee with'd many a time,
To with thee fairer is no need,
In wedded love already bleft,
To thy whole heart's defire?
None here is happy but in part;
There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,.
And, doubtlefs, one in thine.
That wifh, on fome fair future day,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may,).
I wish it all fulfill'd.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN..
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong fide leading,
Injite much metre with much pains,
Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,.
Why ftooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
It floats a vapour now,
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
To form an iris in the skies,
So foon to be forgot!
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
SHE 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.
The laft ev'ning ramble we made,
By the nightingale warbling nigh
We paus'd under many a tree,
And much fhe was charm'd with a tone
Lefs fweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd fo lately her own.
My numbers that day fhe had fung,
Could infufe into numbers of mine.
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleafures of London exceed
In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impedo,
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
'Tis Nature alone that we love.
Since then in the rural recefs
The fcene of her fenfible choice!
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing fteeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
She will have juft the life she prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
THE EVENING WALK.
TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
As well we may, the graces infinite
Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells,
And sheds her lafting perfume, but for which
Still fhelter'd and fecure..
And fo the ftorm.
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,