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Unless the World were all prepard t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less.

TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

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I.
The swallows in their torpid state

Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.

II.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.

III.
But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys ;
With present ills his heart must ake,

And pant for brighter days.

IV.

Old Winter, balting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn ;
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

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y. 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

Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

Shall shine and dry the tear.

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CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,

(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)

She came-she is gone we have met

And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But bas left a regret and esteem,

That will not so suddenly pass.

The last ev'ning ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbleing 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,

And gave them a grace so divine, 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 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 aught that the city can show.

So it is, when the mind is endu'd

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 lasting, a sacred delight.

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