TO THE DUCHESS OF GORDON,
THOU beauteous star! whose silvery light
Enchanting came upon my youthful sight,
Ah what a blaze has hid thy virgin rays,
Whilst I, in woods retir'd, have past my days!
Now, silver'd o'er by Time's eventful hand,
I greet thy evening beam on Scotia's strand,
CLARA! this image is to picture Thee!
I saw thee rising from th' Atlantic sea,
Thy tresses dropping the Cerulean wave,
From whence Thou, graceful, didst the water lave;
The Graces and the loving Boy were there,
And whilst they braided thy ambrosial hair,
I saw Thee blushing, shrinking from my view,
And thy quick footsteps brushing o'er the dew.
Old Kaimes, like Vulcan, first proclaim'd thy charms,
And blest ALEXIS took thee to his arms:
Clara! thy charms surpass the Paphian Queen,
Now Pallas' casque upon thy head is seen!
'Tis not our hearts suffice to grace thy car,
The Muses come at last to close the war.
'Tis fixt; behold the wreath THOU well hast won
I bear it smiling with my setting sun!
I ask no praise, no sympathetic tear,
Heav'n is my home, I am a Stranger here.
EDINBURGH, FEB. 17, 1802.
WHILST you for Gaylard's + festive dance
Adorn your lovely face,
With pleasure see each charm advance,
And heighten every grace;
By Marmontel's instructive page
I strive my soul to dress,
In charms that shall defy old age,
And brighten in distress.
When Belisarius, old and blind,
To Fancy's view appears,
Soft pity overflows my mind,
And fills my eyes with tears.
Afterwards Mrs. M.
Now Mrs. Lefroy of Hampshire.
A neighbouring family in Keut,
Taught by his fate how vain is power,
How fickle Fortune's smiles,
I learn to prize the peaceful hour,
And scorn Ambition's toils.
Surrounded by the pomp
Had I the hero view'd,
Those chiefs attendant on his car,
His valour had subdued,
Compassion for the sufferers' fate
Had o'er my soul prevail'd,
Obscur'd the conqueror's glittering state,
And all his glories veil❜d!
Despoil'd of honours, riches, power,
Bent with the weight of years,
Helpless and blind, in sorrow's hour,
How glorious he appears!
Torn from his brow in life's first bloom
The WARRIOR's crown may fade,
Or in the cold and silent tomb
Be wither'd and decay'd:
But round the GOOD MAN'S placid brow
Unfading wreaths shall twine;
More fresh by time those laurels grow,
Bestow'd by hands divine.
yon pale flower, surcharg'd with dew,
That bends its lonely head to earth,
And seems, in Fancy's eye, to woo
The sod beneath, that gave it birth.
Its stem, which now can scarce sustain
The drops that on its blossom weigh,
Shall soon its wonted strength regain,
Beneath the sun's reviving ray.
But thou, lost maid, whose fading frame
So slowly verges to the tomb,
And seems, in silent woe, to claim
A refuge in its darksome womb,
What sun shall rise thy griefs to chear,
Or o'er thy cloud of sorrow break?
What kindly warmth shall dry the tear
That falls adown thy pallid cheek?
What though thy words will not unfold
The cause, that prompts thy frequent sigh,
Too well, alas! those looks have told
That treacherous Love has bid thee die.
Oh! yes, that power that gave thee breath
Shall view thy woes with pitying eye;
Shall bid each sorrow cease in death,
And call thee to thy kindred sky.
ADIEU, Maria! we must part;
Fate's sternest mandate I obey;
Yet, let remembrance touch thy heart,
And think of him who's far away.
Alas! that all which life supplies,
Are transient joys and lasting pain;
Soft hopes, to glad our weary eyes,
And time, to shew those hopes were vain.
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