I lift Why, goddess, have thy lovely eyes Their azure beams withdrawn ? Dost thou my artless prayer despise ? When oft at morning dawn pure hands from guilt and interest free, And humbly seek for friendship, peace, and thee ! Return, inconstant fair, while thro' the soften'd air While thro' the birchen grove, with lingering steps Irove, Yet while in Clutha's winding vale In fragrant fumes ascend *. * The Lady to whom this poem was addressed, was then in a declining state of health, and preparing to go to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. She recovered partially, but died much lamented, in the 26th year of her age, 1783. And where Edina's turrets rise, Tho' smoky wreaths obscure the skies, Thy soft ambrosial pinions spread And soothe the languid fair. And see, to wooe thee down, she quits the noisy town, Oh shed thy influence o'er the waves, Like VENUS on the dazzled view! ΤΟ MISS D****R OF BOATH. "To cheer me in this melancholy vale, YOUNG. HELEN, by every sympathy allied, By love of virtue and by love of song, Compassionate in youth, and beauty's pride, To thee those grateful artless lays belong, For warmly in thy heart the flame of friendship glows, And sweetly from thy lips the voice of comfort flows. Dark clouds of woe involv'd my troubled soul, To nurse my grief to secret shades I stole, And shunn'd the social hearth and loath'd the light. Grace, beauty, elegance, increas'd my pain, For those too fondly lov'd, I lov'd, alas! in vain ! Soft pitying accents stealing thro' the gloom, Like dawning light upon the formless void, Withdrew my thoughts a moment from the tomb, To scenes now dreary, hopeless, unenjoy'd: Yet busy fancy trac'd thy form unseen, And deck'd with charms thy face, and drest in smiles thy mien. So lonely journeying to LORETTO's shrine, And turns to bid his guardian-angel hail : 'Tis some fair vot'ress pours unseen her strain, By courteous echoes borne to soothe the wand'rer's pain. Enjoy, blest maid, the smiling joyous prime, Crop the fresh primrose and the crocus gay; As pure thy pleasures as those modest flowers That twine around the bashful brows of spring; Then, ere the changing sky inconstant low'rs, Deck thy fair bosom with the sweets they bring ; For when they fade, nor sun nor fav'ring show'rs, Again can make them spring around thy bow'rs. For me, with retrospection sadly pleas'd, When hope's wide vista opens on my sight, I seem from grief's corroding pressure eas'd, To catch a glimpse of pure celestial light : Then, while I patient wait my day's decline, On thee may summer suns unclouded shine! |