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No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near ; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thineSo once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.
TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
Unwin, I should but ill
As ever friendship penn'd,
A union form’d, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport,
And faithful in its sort,
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it
grows, With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, As if produced by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be - in a plan, That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Than ever blazed by art.
TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine, and dry the tear.
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 has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
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,
gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.