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Sue 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 fed 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 paus'd 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.

them a grace

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My numbers that day she had fung,
And gave

so divine, As only ber musical tongue

Could infufe into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd

So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleafures 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 how.

So it is, when the mind is endued

With a well-judging tafite 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 sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess

Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her fenfible choice To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that the 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 the prefers,

With little to wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

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A HERMIT (or if 'chance you

That title now too trite and old),
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have.well desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,
Stoppled his crusę, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide,
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his bill
Shades flanting at the close of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Diftant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still funny side,


And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to balk a little yet,
Just reach'd it when the fun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial firs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long, approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn’d too late, it wants the grace
Which first engag'd him in the chafe.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side
But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,

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