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THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue
Ere long approach life's ev'ning shades,
True, answer'd an angelick guide,
Of that which call'd his ardour forth.
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
The last ev'ning ramble we made,
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,
As only her musical tongue
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
Though the pleasures of London exceed
Than aught that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endu'd
Since, then, in the rural recess
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.
She will have just the life she prefers,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
THE green house is my summer seat; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air;
Two Goldfinches, whose sprightly song,
They sang as blithe as finches sing,
But nature works in every breast,
The open windows seem'd t' invite
And Dick, although his way was clear,
So settling on his cage, by play,
Nor would he quit that chosen stand,
O ye who never taste the joys
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
THERE is a field, through which I often pass Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray, With her chill hand the mellow leaves away;