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My numbers that day she had sung,
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 all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above; Then, whether enibellish'd or rude,
"Tis Nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,
May ev'n our wonder excite,
A lasting, 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 ! 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,
To wing all her moments at home; And with scenes that new rapture inspire
As oft as it suits her to roam;
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to wish or to fear;
THE EVENING WALK.
A TRUCE to thought ! and let us o'er the fields,
way. Let Fancy lead,
The humble lily spares. A thousand blows,
But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy
See, the toiling swain With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last The tough and sinewy furze.' How hard he fought, To win the glory of the barren waste ! For what more noble than the vernal furze. With golden baskets hung? Approach it not, For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish'd kingcup in his hand, And quaff the subtile ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There Oberon His gallant train leads out, the while bis torch
The glowworm lights, and dusky night illumes ;
But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood,
vale between. How sweet the song
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song:
The chimney haunting swallow, too, my eye
I delight to see How suddenly lie skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
But most of all it wins my admiration,
The bee observe; She too an artist is, and laughs at man, Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon With truth to form ; a cunning architect, That at the roof begins her golden work, And builds without foundation. How she toils, And still from bad to bud, from flow'r to flow'r, Travels the livelong day. Ye idle drones, That rather pilfer than your bread obtain By honest means like these, look here and learn How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis, To live by industry. The busy tribes Of bees so emulous are daily fed With Heav'n's peculiar manua.
'Tis for them, Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world Nectarious gold distils. And bounteous Heav'n, Still to the diligent and active good, Their very labour makes the certain cause Of future wealth.
But see, the setting Sun Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts The undulated clouds, that cross his way With glory visible.' His axle cools, And his broad disk, though fervent, not intense,