LITCHFIELD. TO MISS SEWARD,
LEFT IN FARQUHAR'S PARLOUR AT THE GEORGE INN,
THURSDAY AUGUST IIND, MDCCLXXXVII.
Thrice favour'd Litchfield! fair, illustrious town!
High in fame's brightest page stands thy renown.
From thee, whatever sage or poet knew
Of wisdom's endless volume, Johnson drew;
In thy rich glebe, pendent with golden fruit,
Production rare! did Garrick's laurels shoot;
But what should flatter as it honours most,
A Seward's genius is thy living boast:
Whether in virtue's cause her bosom glow,
Or the sad strain to friendship sacred flow,
Or meditating yet a nobler song,
With wonted aid the muses round her throng,
In wit a phoenix, and in heart a dove,
Her sex's pride, our wonder and our love.
Hither, elate with hope, I came from far
To view insphered the famed poetic star,
Which oft in song, tho' a reflected blaze,
Had rapt my fancy and outshone my praise;
But from this seat of excellence depart
With lingering step and disappointed heart;
For still to me, with deep regret I own,
She shines unseen and captivates unknown.
