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The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
for the buds it had left with regret On the flouri:hing bush where it grew.
I haftily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow refign'd.
This elegant rose, had I fhaken it lef, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ;
And the tear that is wip'd with a liale address,
To Mrs. THROCKMORTOX,
For thee with'd many a time,
But never yet in rhime.
More prudent, or more sprightly,
From temper-flaws unfightly.
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
There dwells some with in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine. That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,
AN INK-GLASS- ALMOST: DRIED IN THE SUN..
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leading,
And little or no meaning;
That water all the nations,.
In constant exhalations;
Too covetous of drink.
A poet's drop of ink!
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before
Beyond the happiest, lot
So foon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy defign,
To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left
shine With equal grace below.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, She came--fhe is gone--we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is sera
And seems to have risen in vain, Catharina has Aed like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not fo fuddenly pass.
The last ev’ning 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 fo lately her own.
My numbers that day she had fung,
gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I efteem'd
The work of my fancy the morey And ev'n to myself never seemd
So tuneful a poet before.
Thougla Though the pleasures of London exceed CHAP. XXXVII.
In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impedo,
Would feel herself happier here; For the 'close-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her
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 lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to posless
The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing fteeds, 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,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to wish or to fear,
THE EVENING W’ALK.
TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Her sister tribes.confounds, and to the earth.
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,