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None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss bliss divine :
And doubtless one in thine.
Which Fate shall brightly gild
I wish it all fulfill’d.
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE's ODE
AD LIBRUM SUUM.
MARIA, could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode, To his own little volume address’d,
The honour which you have bestow'd: Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
if you please, he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies; Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
To Miss Stapleton, now firs. Courtnay.
She came- -she is
-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.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
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,
So tuneful a poet before.
In number the days of the year,
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 endued
With a well judging taste from above, Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
May even our wonder excite,
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,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
The doctrine is certainly true,
And poets are oracles too.
To see Catharina at home,
And lo—she is actually come.
But the wish of a poet and friend Perhaps is approved in the skies,
And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm'd With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form’d. Maria' would leave us, I knew,
To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view
Catharina the queen of the hall: And therefore I wish'd as I did,
And therefore this union of hands: Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry—Amen—to the bans. Since therefore I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain, When making good wishes for her, I will e'en to my wishes again
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another, Which I cannot suppress
for How soon I can make her a mother.
With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky: This cap to my
cousin I owe; She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow,
The ribbon with which it is tied. This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and doze, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,
Fair Cassiopeïa sat:
Caledonia's traffic and pride!
Escaped from a cross-country ride! This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust: