O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away; Then when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be; Blest is thy dwelling-place- 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, 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, 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 Though the pleasures of London exceed Would feel herself happier here; Than aught that the city can show. So it is when the mind is imbued The achievements of art may amuse, Since then in the rural recess The scene of her sensible choice! 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, She will have just the life she prefers, COWPER. Hymn to Diana. QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Earth, let not thy envious shade Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close: 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, 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; And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again, And still the thought I will not brook But, when I speak, thou dost not say And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, |