Sketches in verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

To soothe each poor neglected maid,
Who loads the winds of the parade
With sighs, for Simon or for Simpson
(Abortive sighs, that reach not L---e,
Though L---'s beaux might suit so well
The zenith of a S---s belle)
The Muses, ever prone to pity,
Would pour the love-devoted ditty.
Yet every maiden cries out—“Pish!
“What can the Muses do, but wish?”
Too true: and though they've wish'd so long,
Their offspring—it is all—a song.

Yet shall the Nine, my girls, produce
Some good, and prove of solid use,
While in your lovely forms they rise,
And stream their radiance from your eyes—
While shines, Sophia, bright in thee,
The lively, gay Terpsichore,
Who, smiling as her steps advance,
Lightly threads the sportive dance—
While the Muse of pensive air,
In thee, Louisa, still more fair,
Beams from those lids a gentle ray;
And melting in a lovelorn lay,
Tho' the tenderest of the Nine,
Boasts not a voice so sweet as thine—
Whilst Urania, fond to shew
Her heavenly attributes below,
Eliza, to our sense imparts,
In thee the type of spotless hearts;

That placid look, that wish to please,
That affability and ease,
That openness so free from guile,
That meekness, such as angels smile!

Why stops my verse—in such a pother
Why hesitate, as if no other
Were worthy of the mighty honor
To take the Muse for once upon her?
Where is Calliope? Where Clio?
Where is Euterpe? Why demur?
The Virgins of S---s will sigh “O!
“'Tis hard to stomach such a slur!”
True—when, in Sunday-cloaths start forth,
Too luminous to touch the earth,
Of blazing beauties such a host,
Whose orbs, on other days, are lost!—
That, as the Sabbath-sun goes down,
Strait re-assume the russet gown,

And, though on days of rest, fine ladies,
Shew us, on Mondays, what their trade is;
While, lutestrings bright lock'd up, Miss Jenny
Behind the counter turns a penny;
Or, though a vapourish Polyhymnie,
Cuts, many a rasher deep, the flitch in,
Adorning with her hams the chimney,
In the meridian of a kitchen.
But come—we need not stoop so low,
As if for subjects at a loss:
Still may the Nine their boons bestow
Amidst the gentry of S---s.
Perhaps, the hearts of men to win, sent
By the fine features of Miss V---t,
Can they, a moment, cease to ape
The graces of her polisht shape,
And, as her figure they assume,
Light up her cheek's unfading bloom?

Say, will they not delight to rustle
Soft in the sattins of Miss B---l,
Her vocables so pretty, mincing—
Nodding her airy plumes and wincing?
Thrown aside her tragic pomps,
I see Melpomene in romps!

Yet lo! a Muse of finer texture
As palpitates her bleeding heart,
Kneels down, with tremulous genuflexure,
And prays to be assign'd her part.
'Tis Erato—the Muse of love—
With sighing virgins hand and glove;
Quick through their bosoms as she rushes,
And kindles with new fire their blushes.
But (lest this Erato should put her,
Poor maiden! in too great a flutter)
Behold, she dares not, at her peril,
Inspire the form of Mary T---l;

A form by nature's self array'd,
By the delighted graces deckt;
That wants not any Muse's aid
To give it interest or effect;
Where as the countenance beams forth
Instinctive sense and genuine worth,
And the submitted eye—the cheek
(Suffus'd with mantling blushes) speak
More eloquent than words—we see
Thy triumph, sweet Simplicity!
And may those beauties quickly rivet—
Not such a bosom, as in sly men
Oft turns upon caprice's pivot,
But a sound heart dovetail'd by Hymen!