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A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A--- L---

In life's gay morn, when pleasing dreams
Of Love, and such romantic themes;
With shady groves, and purling streams
Delight thy sex;
While hopes, and fears, and endless schemes
Their minds perplex;

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Wilt thou, fair Anna, condescend
To listen to an humble friend,
Who, doom'd with ceaseless toil to wend
Life's thorny way;
Presumes, though fearing to offend,
To frame a Lay.
A simple Lay! which critic's ear,
With cool disdain would surely hear;
But which, address'd to friend sincere,
Though quaint in style;
May gain the meed to Friendship dear,
The approving smile.
Not mine the lot of happier Bard,
Whose loftier verse has nobly dared
To emulate the high reward
The wreath of Fame!
Who on Parnassus' Mount hath shared
A Poet's name.

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Such was the Bard, whose fairy page
Could once our every thought engage,
The latest Minstrel of the age
Of feudal ire,
“Ere Policy sedate and sage”
Had quench'd its fire.
Hast thou forgot, my Friend! the hour,
When, in the Highland Chieftain's bower,
“Where the Clematis, favour'd flower,”
Its beauties shed;
We own'd the Poet's magic power
Whose page we read.
To savage Roderick, fierce and brave,
Meet tribute of applause we gave,
When, lingering near the Goblin's Cave,
His Ellen's seat
He felt his heart, her beauty's slave,
Relenting beat.

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The noble Douglas, truly great,
With Royal James, “whose will was fate,”
Who left his court and regal state
In form a Knight:
Hope, fear, and joy, by turns create,
A wild delight.
But chief, fair Ellen! honour's child,
Ingenuous, noble, cheerful, mild;
Queen of the fairy scene so wild,
And Malcolm Graemc,
The gallant youth on whom she smil'd,
Our interest claim.
Such themes as these, my friend, could cheat
The flight of time, when, pleas'd to meet,
And spend an hour, alas, how fleet!
Around the urn,
To talk, to read, to laugh, to eat,
Each in their turn.

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And trust me pleasures such as these,
Whene'er we can 'tis wise to seize:
The selfish heart they cannot please,
Which beats by rule;
May go and take its dull degrees
In Zeno's School.
There are who travel Life's dull road,
Whom discontent, with ceaseless goad,
May prompt to murmur at their load
Of care and wo;
Regardless of the good bestow'd
On all below.
Let us, my Friend, with joy survey
The prospect, gilded by the ray
Of smiling hope, and fancy gay;
A lovely pair!
Desponding gloom shall flee away
And black despair.

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Believe me Anne:—though I have striven,
On Life's rough ocean tempest driven,
To bear the heaviest stroke that heaven
Inflicts on man;
I will not aught witheld or given
Presume to scan.
And now, though I must oft retrace
Those griefs which time can ne'er efface,
I'm not so selfish, blind, or base,
As to repine,
That She has join'd the angelic race,
Who once was mine.
Far happier lot is Her's, I ween,
Partaker of that glorious scene,
Where Gates of Pearl, with dazzling sheen,
The path disclose
To joys immortal, bliss serene,
And calm repose.

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Yes, I have suffer'd much below!
Yet has it been my lot to know
The comfort kindness can bestow,
The friendly tear,
Call'd forth in sympathetic glow,
From heart sincere.
To thee, my Friend! may Heaven assign
A more auspicious fate than mine:
And pure Religion's light divine
Thy steps attend,
Cheering with influence benign
Thy journey's end.
 

“Whoe'er has travell'd Life's dull round.”—Shenstone.