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THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARJA ! I have ev'ry good
For thee wilh'd many a time,
But never yet in rhime.
More prudent, or more sprightly,
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 brightły gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may.) I wish it all fulfill'd.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.
Ab why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink ?
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before,
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
Phæbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow, Give, wit, that what is left may fhine
With equal grace below.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came - she is gone--we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is fet,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has filed like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.. We pausd under many a tree,
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,
And gave them a grace so divine,
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 ; 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 even our wonder excite,
A laiting, 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!