Poems on Various Subjects with some Essays in Prose, Letters to Correspondents, &c. and A Treatise on Health. By Samuel Bowden |
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THE REPLY To a Young LADY's Friendly Caution to the Author,
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 | Poems on Various Subjects |  |
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THE REPLY To a Young LADY's Friendly Caution to the Author,
Who Travel'd In Quest of her Stray'd Muse.
Sylvia, you shew me the wrong way,
To find your Muse who went astray.
Fallacious guides you now depute,
Only to puzzle my pursuit:
When I had chas'd the nymph so long,
'Twas barbarous to direct me wrong.
Send me not Sylvia into brakes,
Untrodden paths, and fenny lakes;
Nor into woods, and forests deep,
To see th' enchanting Syren sleep.
Into no caves will I repair,
For what shou'd Sylvia's Muse do there?
To find your Muse who went astray.
Fallacious guides you now depute,
Only to puzzle my pursuit:
When I had chas'd the nymph so long,
'Twas barbarous to direct me wrong.
Send me not Sylvia into brakes,
Untrodden paths, and fenny lakes;
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To see th' enchanting Syren sleep.
Into no caves will I repair,
For what shou'd Sylvia's Muse do there?
Sure you th' immortal maid abuse,
And make a Gipsey of your Muse.
And make a Gipsey of your Muse.
No—to the skys she flew away,
Amongst her kindred stars to stray.
The winged goddess long'd to soar,
And see her native heaven once more.
Oh! Sylvia, when she left your breast,
What place was fit for such a guest?
What grove below, what hill or plain,
Cou'd such a stranger entertain?
What soil, what paradise on earth,
Cou'd nurse this plant of heav'nly birth?
Amongst her kindred stars to stray.
The winged goddess long'd to soar,
And see her native heaven once more.
Oh! Sylvia, when she left your breast,
What place was fit for such a guest?
What grove below, what hill or plain,
Cou'd such a stranger entertain?
What soil, what paradise on earth,
Cou'd nurse this plant of heav'nly birth?
A Sylph, whom I retain as spy,
Told me he saw her mount on high,
Celestial pilgrim to the sky.
Elijah-like, she bent her flight,
And left behind a trail of light.
The Sylph close track'd her all the way,
By this new galaxy of day.
Wet were her wings with morning dew,
As thro' his airy tracts she flew.
Told me he saw her mount on high,
Celestial pilgrim to the sky.
Elijah-like, she bent her flight,
And left behind a trail of light.
The Sylph close track'd her all the way,
By this new galaxy of day.
Wet were her wings with morning dew,
As thro' his airy tracts she flew.
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The watchful shepherds were amaz'd,
And at the mounting meteor gaz'd.
Some thought it was a shooting star,
Or baleful comet, boding war.
Sylvia,—'twas no delusive light,
No Ignis Fatuus of the night,
Which on a summer's eve is seen,
Hovering o'er the fairy green.
Strong were her beams, and brighter far,
Than Hesper's, or the Morning star.
And at the mounting meteor gaz'd.
Some thought it was a shooting star,
Or baleful comet, boding war.
Sylvia,—'twas no delusive light,
No Ignis Fatuus of the night,
Which on a summer's eve is seen,
Hovering o'er the fairy green.
Strong were her beams, and brighter far,
Than Hesper's, or the Morning star.
She stop'd not 'till she reach'd the gaol,
Where the sparkling Pleiads roll;
While all her sister Muses there,
Welcom'd the stranger to the sphere.
Near Virgo's celebrated sign,
Th' exalted nymph was seen to shine:
Nor cou'd astronomers devise,
What new star glitter'd in the skys.
Some nights beheld her twinkling ray,
Then shot the prodigy away.
Where the sparkling Pleiads roll;
While all her sister Muses there,
Welcom'd the stranger to the sphere.
Near Virgo's celebrated sign,
Th' exalted nymph was seen to shine:
Nor cou'd astronomers devise,
What new star glitter'd in the skys.
Some nights beheld her twinkling ray,
Then shot the prodigy away.
For tho' excursions she might make,
Up to the stars for soaring sake,
Yet long the truant cou'd not stay,
Nor long from Sylvia's bosom stray.
No farther in the heavens she'd go,
Who left another heaven below.
Up to the stars for soaring sake,
Yet long the truant cou'd not stay,
Nor long from Sylvia's bosom stray.
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Who left another heaven below.
Then no such ramble need I take,
Or climb the hills, or beat the brake.
For by the brightness of your pen,
I see she's now return'd again;
Let me to Holt's sweet shades repair,
I'm sure to find the vagrant there;
'Tis but to visit Sylvia's cell,
For where she is the Muse must dwell.
Or climb the hills, or beat the brake.
For by the brightness of your pen,
I see she's now return'd again;
Let me to Holt's sweet shades repair,
I'm sure to find the vagrant there;
'Tis but to visit Sylvia's cell,
For where she is the Muse must dwell.
| Poems on Various Subjects | |