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203
LINES
Addressed to a Young Lady, inclosing a volume.
Envelop'd in this sheet I send
A trifling token from a friend;
The wrapper, too, before you rend,
A moment heed it,
And if you have the time to spend
Perhaps you'll read it.
A trifling token from a friend;
The wrapper, too, before you rend,
A moment heed it,
And if you have the time to spend
Perhaps you'll read it.
'T is not my aim to sing a song,
Nor write a dissertation long,
Nor ply with force the knotted thong
Of Vengeance keen,
Nor paint in faithful colors strong
Some moving scene.
Nor write a dissertation long,
Nor ply with force the knotted thong
Of Vengeance keen,
Nor paint in faithful colors strong
Some moving scene.
A simple truth I'll merely write.
(Could mortals aye in truth delight,
And could we think and act aright,
Frail as we are,
How little cause there 'd be for fight
And wordy war!
(Could mortals aye in truth delight,
And could we think and act aright,
Frail as we are,
How little cause there 'd be for fight
And wordy war!
But was the truth as easy ever
From falsifying tongues to sever
As that which I shall soon deliver,
Deceit would die,
And Belial's children, growing clever,
Would scorn to lie!)
From falsifying tongues to sever
As that which I shall soon deliver,
Deceit would die,
And Belial's children, growing clever,
Would scorn to lie!)
Till Heal-all's
gentle stream shall fail
To join its parent in the vale,
Or mind one of a mournful tale
To memory dear;
Till Autumn winds no more bewail
The dying year—
To join its parent in the vale,
Or mind one of a mournful tale
To memory dear;
204
The dying year—
Till silent Luna shall complain
Her lot is hard to wax and wane;
Yea, till the wide, unfathomed main
Shall dry away,
And thou shalt cease thy awful strain,
Niagara!—
Her lot is hard to wax and wane;
Yea, till the wide, unfathomed main
Shall dry away,
And thou shalt cease thy awful strain,
Niagara!—
Till then shall Modesty secure
Herself a praise which shall endure,
And Virtue and Religion pure—
Twin sisters three.
Were 't not that flatt'ry I abjure
I 'd speak of thee!
Herself a praise which shall endure,
And Virtue and Religion pure—
Twin sisters three.
Were 't not that flatt'ry I abjure
I 'd speak of thee!
And since all flattery I discard,
To write another verse is hard;
The sisters be your constant guard,
And still thy care!
So prays your humble friend, the bard—
Heaven hear his prayer.
To write another verse is hard;
The sisters be your constant guard,
And still thy care!
So prays your humble friend, the bard—
Heaven hear his prayer.
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