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TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
Compose their useless wing,
The wildest wind that blows,
The gloomy scene surveys;
Bids me and Mary mourn;
And whispers your return.
Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
SHE came-she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last ev'ning ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbleing nigh.
And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteemid
The work of my fancy the more, And ev'n to myself never seemd
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
So it is, when the mind is endu'd
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,
A lasting, 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!