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REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
An Invitation into the Country.
Compose their useless wing,
The wildest wind that blows,
The gloomy scene surveys;
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o’er the mead,
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, Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paus’d under many a tree,
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,
And gave them a grace so divine,
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more, And e’en to myself never seem'd
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 aught that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endu'd
With a well-judging taste from above; Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'1 is 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
Cathar na 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.