To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour, then, not yet possess'd, Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part;

Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart, And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day, Which fate shall brightly gild,

('Tis blameless, be it what it may)'

I wish it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning,

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, hast thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,

Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,

Of all that ever pass'd my pen,

So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,

II.

Give wit, that what is left

may shine

With equal grace below.

2 A

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

SHE came-she is gone-we have metAnd 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 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 had witness'd so lately her own.

My numbers that day she had

And

sung,

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 all that the city can show.