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We paus'd under many a tree,.

And much she was charm'd with a tone

Lefs fweet to Maria and me,

Who had witnefs'd fo lately her own.

My numbers that day she had fung,
And gave them a grace fo divine,

As only her mufical tongue

Could infufe into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I 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;

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For the clofe-woven arches of limes,"

On the banks of our river, I know, Are fweeter 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 even our wonder excite,

But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse
A lafting, a facred delight.

Since then in the rural recefs

Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it ftill be her lot to poffefs

The scene of her fenfible choice!

To inhabit a manfion remote

From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds,

And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that fhe 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 fuits her to roam,.

She will have just the life fhe 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 TAL E.

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 crufe, replaced his book

Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet air,

Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To ferious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,

And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades flanting at the clofe of day
Chill'd more his elfe delightful way.

Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's ftill funny fide, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimbleft pace, In hope to bask a little yet,

Juft reach'd it when the fun was fet.

Your hermit, young and jovial firs! Learns fomething from whate'er occurs— And hence, he faid, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits.

His object chofen, wealth or fame,

Or other fublunary game,

Imagination to his view

Prefents 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 fo defirable an end.

Ere long, approach life's evening fhades,

The glow that fancy gave it fades;

And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace Which firft engag'd him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,

Attendant at the fenior's fide

But whether all the time it coft

To urge the fruitless chafe be loft,

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