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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
On the flourishing bufh where it grew.

I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I fnapp'd it-it fell to the ground.

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

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,
Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile;
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a fmile.




MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee with'd many a time,
Both fad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhime.

To with thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more fprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper flaws unfightly.
What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

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


There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,.

And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That wifh, on fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall 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 fide leading,

Injite 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 ftooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, haft thou ftol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air:

It floats a vapour now,
Impell'd through regions denfe and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illuftrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happieft, lot
Of all that ever pafs'd my pen

So foon to be forgot!


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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.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not fo fuddenly pafs.

The laft ev'ning ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progrefs was often delay'd

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,
And gave them a grace fo divine,
As only her mufical tongue

Could infufe into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I efteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And ev'n to my felf never feem'd'

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
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 lafting, a facred delight.

Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it ftill be her lot to poffefs

The fcene 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 she leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture infpire
As oft as it fuits her to roam,

She will have juft 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.






TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Acrofs the down, or through 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 sweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chafte and good, and let us read
The living page, whofe ev'ry chara&er
Delights, and gives us wifdem. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a bloffom, but contains.
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and ftill find fomething new,
Something to please, and fomething to inftruct,.
E'en in the noifome weed. See, ere we pass.
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little moniter prefents 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 fun:
She to no flate or dignity aspires,
But filent and alone puts on her fuit,

And sheds her lafting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet:
Hid in the gloomy fhade. So when the blaft
Her fifter tribes.confounds, and to the earth.
Stoops the r high heads that vainly were expos'd,
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 thoufand blows


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