We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tóne: Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness’d so lately her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And

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 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.

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 vallies, diffuse

A lafting, 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 the 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,,
She will have just 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.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED,

A TALE.

A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old)

A man, once young, who lived retired

As hermit could have well defired,

His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, fet forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades Nanting at the close of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still funny side,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reach'd it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! Learns something from whate'er oçćurs-And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, Imagination to his view Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue ,That can feduce him not to spare His pow'rs of best exertion there, But youth, health, vigour, to expend On so desirable an end. Ere long, approach life's evening shades, The glow that fancy gave it fades; And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace Which first engag'd him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,

Attendant at the senior's side

But whether all the time it cost

To urge the fruitless chase be lost,

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