TRANSLATION OF

PRIOR'S

CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.

I.

MERCATOR, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit, Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes; Lené sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chlöe.

II. Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia criues, Cum dixit mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. Namque lyram juxtà positam cum carmine vidit, Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram. III.

Fila lyræ vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt,

Et miscent numeris murmura mæsta ineis, Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ, Tota anima interea pendet a bore Chlöes.

IV. Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem, Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo; Atque Cupidineâ dixit Dea cincta corona,

Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

'I.
THE Swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.

II.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feared by them,
Secure of their repose.

III.

But man, all-feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
IV.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.

V.
Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers,
And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.

VI.

And, if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine and dry the tear.

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 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 had witnessed so lately 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 ev'n 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 all that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellished 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 Philomels 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 wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,