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And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie, 30 Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,

Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued, 35

Thy gay good-humour, can they fade ? Perhaps- But sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name,

which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu.



On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly:
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of nighty
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flash'd the red artillery.



But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 30
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.





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,



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, & sacred delight.

40 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 leade.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,

50 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,

55 Might we view her enjoying it here.



FATHER of all! in every age,

In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Thou Great First Cause, least understood, 5

Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that thou art goud,

And that myself am blind;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;

10 And binding nature fast in fate,

Let free the human will.


What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun,

That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives,

Let me not cast away ;
For God is paid when man receives ;

To enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span

Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think Thee Lord alone of man,

When thousand worlds are round:




Let not this weak, unknowing hand

Presume thy bolts to throw,
Ånd deal damnation round the land,

On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace imparty

Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my

To find that better way!
Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denied,

Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,

Since quicken'd by thy breath ;



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