TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON. An Invitation into the Country. I. THE swallows in their torpid state II. The keenest frost that binds the stream, II. But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys; IV. Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, V. Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bow'rs, And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day, To crown the smiling hours. VI. And if a tear, that speaks regret A glimpse of joy, that we have met, CATHARINA. ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS, COURTNEY.) SHE came-she is gone-we have met- And seems to have risen in vain. 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, Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd 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 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, |