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-And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine
circles of unwearied rays ; Mistook a mortal for an angel guest, And ask'd what seraph foot the earth impress’d. Onward he moves ! -Disease and Death retire, - And murm'ring demons hate him, and admire.
The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flow'r,
The cup was all filld, and the leaves were all wet,
for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with it's owner awhile ;
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee wish'd many a time,
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
Full bliss is bliss divine;
And, doubtless, one in thine.
Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,)
I wish it all fulfilld.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
Patron of all those huckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning;
That water all the nations,
In constant 'exhalations ;
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Beyond the happiest lot
So soon to be forgot!
To place it in thy bow,
shine With equal grace below.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came-she is gone we have met
To 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.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd so lately 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, f esteem'd.
The work of my fancy the more, And ev'n 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 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 ev'n 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 ! 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.
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 suits her to roam;