O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away;

Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be;
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

Catharina.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

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.

HOGG.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delayed

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

And much she was charmed with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed 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 esteemed

The work of my fancy the more,

And even to myself never seemed
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 imbued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellished or rude,
"T is 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 our's would be pleasant as her's,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

COWPER.

Hymn to Diana.

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess, excellently bright.

BEN JONSON.

If I had thought thou couldst have died.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be;
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again,

And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.

But, when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er leftst unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in the grave—
And I am now alone.