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CATHARINA.

Addressed to Miss Stapleton, now Mrs. Courtney.

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 ev'ning ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus'd 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 endu'd

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 vallies 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.

ON THE

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

[To the March in Scipio.]

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.

[September, 1782.]

TOLL for the brave !

The brave that are no more, All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

248

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought ;

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in his sheath;

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes !
And mingle with

our cup,
The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,
Full-charg'd with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred,

Shall plough the wave no more.

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