EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
FROM FORT HENRY.
From where his lofty head Talheo rears,
And o'er the wild in majesty appears,
What shall I write that—wont disdain,
Or worth, from thee one moment's space to gain?
The muse,—in vain I court the lovely maid,—
Views with contempt the rude unpolish'd shade;
Nor only this, she flies fierce war's alarms,
And seeks where peace invites with softer charms;
Where the gay landscapes strike the traveller's eyes,
And woods and lawns in beauteous order rise;
Where the glad swain sings on the enamell'd green,
And views, unawed by fears, the pleasing scene.
Here no enchanting prospects yield delight,
But darksome forests intercept the sight;
Here fill'd with dread the trembling peasants go,
And start with terror at each nodding bough,
Nor as they trace the gloomy way along,
Dare ask the influence of a cheering song.
If in this wild a pleasing spot we meet,
In happier times some humble swain's retreat;
Where once with joy he saw the grateful soil
Yield a luxuriant harvest to his toil,
(Bless'd with content, enjoy'd his solitude,
And knew his pleasures, though of manners rude;)
The lonely prospect strikes a secret dread,
While round the ravaged cot we silent tread,
Whose owner fell beneath the savage hand,
Or roves a captive on some hostile land,
While the rich fields, with Ceres' blessings stored,
Grieve for their slaughter'd or their absent lord.
Yet would I now attempt some sprightly strain,
And strive to wake your breast to mirth again,
Yet would I call you from your Delia's urn,
But Britain's genius bids her sons to mourn;
She shows the fatal field, all drench'd in gore,
And in sad accents cries, “My Howe's no more!”
Then let again the briny torrents flow.
Oh! teach your breast a nobler kind of woe!
To mourn her faded beauties now forbear,
And give the gallant chief a British tear.
