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None here is happy but in part;

Full bliss is bliss divine :
There dwells some wish in every heart,

And doubtless one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,

Which Fate shall brightly gild
('Tis blameless, be it what it may),

I wish it all fulfill’d.

TO

MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE's ODE

AD LIBRUM SUUM.

FEBRUARY, 1790.

MARIA, could Horace have guess'd

What honour awaited his ode, To his own little volume address’d,

The honour which you have bestow’d:
Who have traced it in characters here,

So elegant, even, and neat,
He had laugh’d at the critical sneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said,

A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead,

The glory your malice denies; Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

CATHARINA.

To Miss Stapleton, now firs. Courtnap. She came

-she is gone—we have metAnd 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,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,

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.
The achievements of art may amuse,

May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse

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 hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here,

CATHARINA.

Second Part.
ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTNAY, ESQ. 1792.
BELIEVE it or not, as you choose,

The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the muse,

And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire

To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,

And lo-she is actually come.
Such prophecy some may despise,

But the wish of a poet and friend Perhaps is approved in the skies, .

And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth

From a bosom effectually warm’d With the talents, the graces, and worth

Of the person for whom it was form’d. Maria' would leave us, I knew,

To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view

Catharina the queen of the hall: And therefore I wish'd as I did,

And therefore this union of hands: Not a whisper was heard to forbid,

But all cry-Amen—to the bans. Since therefore I seem to incur

No danger of wishing in vain, When making good wishes for her, I will e'en to my wishes again

Lady Throckmorton.

With one I have made her a wife,

And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress

for
my

lifeHow soon I can make her a mother.

GRATITUDE.
Addressed to Lady Hesketh.

1786.
This cap, that so stately appears,

With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears

Ambitious of brushing the sky: This cap to my cousin I owe;

She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied. This wheel-footed studying chair,

Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,

In which I both scribble and doze, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,

And rival in lustre of that
In which, or Astronomy lies,

Fair Cassiopeïa sat:
These carpets, so soft to the foot,

Caledonia's traffic and pride!
Oh, spare them, ye knights of the boot,

Escaped from a cross-country ride! This table and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin,

And periwig nicely adjust:

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