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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 repay
The kindness of a friend,
As ever friendship penn’d,
A union form’d, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport,
And faithful in its sort,
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
The stock whereon it grows,
Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
Lest this should prove the last.
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,
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.
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,
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 e'en 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 endued
With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
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 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.