POEMS. (continued 2)

TO you my fair, the empress of my heart, I’m urg’d to vent my pure, untainted flame; Tho’ language faintly can my thoughts impart, My swelling sighs, your kind attention claim. See Venus self outrival’d by your charms: Vain my attempt thy virtues to portray O come my darling hasten to my arms Within my bosom still you bear the sway. Life without thee no pleasure can bestow; O might my suit thy tender pity move! No muse can paint the ills I undergo; And nought can cure them but my Delia’s love. No bold ambitions views inspire my breast: And what is honour but an empty name? While Delia scorns, I never can be blest, Though sounding heralds did my praise proclaim. Know, lovely charmer, that our ancient sire Did languish, tho’ in Eden’s fragrant bow’rs; Till the first nymph bade love his breast inspire, And by her presence cheer’d the ling’ring hours. But Adam’s love could never equal mine, Nor did bright Eve such radient beauty share. O come, my darling, heart and hand resign, And ev’ry muse shall hail the happy pair.

WHEN Adam was in spacious Eden plac’d, Where rural sweets luxuriant did abound, All that could charm the eye or please the taste, In this blest scene of happiness was found. O’er wide creation, he an empire sway’d: The creatures all with whom the world was stor’d, His sov’reign mandates with delight obey’d, And own’d him as their universal lord. What would he more, to render bless complete? You say he lack’d the sweets of social life, Until fair Eve, with charms divinely sweet, Became his friend, his partner, and his wife But think, fond youth, how transient was the bliss. Scarce had he felt the joys of mutual love, Scarce had he once receiv’d th’ ambrosial kiss, When ah! his darling did his ruin prove! Did she, who was adorn’d with ev’ry grace, Prove fatal to the father of mankind? Who of her daughters, a degen’rate race, Can boast more art the tranquil hours to bind? To sue for better, sir, would be in vain: None ever yet did mother Eve excel. Be warn’d by Adam; shun the glitt’ring train, Lest some fond nymph your pleasures all expel. A single life we find replete with joys. The matrimonial chain I ever dread. A state of celibacy is my choice; Therefore Alonzo never can succeed.

SIR, I your letter did peruse; So elegant the style you use, Abash’d, confounded I did muse Struck with amaze; Great wit and learning you diffuse In all your lays. You’ve been upon Parnassus’ top, More high than Alexander Pope; And wild Arabia’s plains you grope For Phenix rare, That useful knowledge you may drop, While dunces stare. Your Pegasus, still on the wing, More sweet than Philomel you sing; And swift from distant climes you bring Notes hard to read: Does Phenix, sir, from ashes spring? ’Tis strange indeed. But more difficult ’tis to scan, That dire, deceitful creature man; Of all the work in Nature’s plan, Sure none can be So intricate to understan’, As mystic he. His breast is fill’d with mazy wiles; His count’nance stor’d with fickle smiles: His flatt’ring speech too oft beguiles Pure innocence; And when he writes, his lofty style’s Replete with sense. Such eloquence does merit praise; Deep erudition swells your lays: You seem the laureate of our days; And all the nine, Your mighty character to raise, Do now combine. ’Tis pity, sir, that such as you Should agriculture’s paths pursue, Or destin’d be to hold the plough On the cold plain; More fit that laurels deck’d the brow Of such a swain. Yet Homer’s parts few did commend, Till death his doleful days did end; Then seven cities did contend A right to claim; Each vow’d from thence he did descend, So great his fame. Perhaps, sir, in some future age, Struck with the beauties of your page, Old Scotia’s chieftains may engage Your name to raise; More have they to excite their rage, Than Homer’s lays. But I must drop the pond’rous theme, Lest you my weak attempts should blame; So sure your title is to fame, Who runs may read; Of such your merit to proclaim You have no need. Know then, that love within my breast, Has never yet been known to rest; Nor would I harbour such a guest, To give me pain: I wish you, sir, so much distress’d, Soon well again.

DEAR sir, accept this missive sent From one whose mind’s sincerely bent, On ever acting so with you, As shall evince her friendship true. But how shall Carlos really know, That friendship in her breast doth glow? A friend is more than empty name: Few justly can the title claim. Were Flavia born in station high, Her friendship soon you would descry: Her op’lence quickly would reveal, What pen’ry bids her now conceal. Then Carlos would her favour boast, Nor be so much by fortune cross’d. Thus Flavia talks of her esteem, As heroes conquer in a dream; Or as a culprit, doom’d to die, In dungeon where he’s forc’d to lie, Might boast of what he could effect, Were kings attentive to his beck. You laugh, dear Sir, and pray what then, Must Flavia call you best of men? Must high encomiums grace her lays, And all her notes be swell’d with praise? Know Sir, when friendship does commence, All flatt’ry must be spurn’d from thence: No real friendship can exist, In the disembling flatt’rer’s breast. What can poor Flavia then bestow, But wish you still may better grow? Your wit still more and more refine,} And all the beauties of your min’,} With radient lustre ever shine;} In virtue’s paths, still on to tread, Which to the fair Elysium lead; May every action justly claim The Poet’s wish, that thing call’d Fame. As through life’s winding vale you rove, May still your stars propitious prove, And richest blessings on you shower; May sweet contentment grace your bower; By love and fortune ever crown’d, May honour all your wishes bound. Nor access find within your breast, One thought your friend would wish supprest; And may they soon at Tyburn swing, Who would not sign what here I sing.

ON the delightful banks of Mein, The muse laments in pensive strain; The nymphs assembl’d on the green, Of Nelly’s absence all complain. Our rural swains no joys can find, But still in pensive silence mourn; With heads upon the turf reclin’d They sigh, and wish your swift return. Oft have they curs’d fair Moffat town, With all the virtues of the Well; The sprightly Beau, and rustic clown, Of Nelly’s charms delight to tell. Dear maid, it is for you alone, They spend whole days and nights in sighs; And will you disregard their moan, And all their plaintive notes despise? ’Tis Autumn now, the fertile field, Rich Ceres decks with yellow grain; With joy we would our sickles wield, If Nelly deign’d to grace the plain. Come now and of our labours share; None better can that weapon ply; O mitigate Philander’s care, Whose toil seems less when you are nigh. Once more, dear Nell, I’d wish to see You cheerful join the rural throng; Your presence would enhance our glee, And sweetly animate my song.

WHAT tongue can half my woes express? What force of eloquence can tell? The causes of my deep distress Are such as ever seem to swell. My parents not ignoble were; My father once a merchant fam’d; But now in a superior sphere, ’Mongst landed gentlemen he’s nam’d. My mother, of no mean extract: The famous Freyburgh gave her birth; With wit and prudence still she’ll act; None more accomplished on earth. My brethren all for valour fam’d, Their merit great, what pen can show; Their praise has been by fame proclaim’d, While justly in esteem they grow. I had one only sister dear; Our parents’ joy and pride were we; Our charms attractive did appear To men of high and low degree: Who often times, in soft address, Did strive our favour to obtain, While we of fortitude possess’d, Refus’d their offers with disdain. They vow’d we would their ruin prove, Persisting in our cruelty; But we were wont to laugh at love, And little Cupid’s darts defy. We ever arm’d were cap-a-pee; Indiff’rence was our favourite shield; But by some fatal destiny, My sister languish’d in the field. Depriv’d of all defensive arms, (I sigh, my tears begin to flow) And slain by a sea captain’s charms, She married was a month ago. In an unlucky moment he, From Plutus sure had learn’d the art, Made his empoison’d arrows flee, Till one of them did pierce her heart. She did not wish to find relief, But an ignoble victim fell, Which fill’d our parents’ hearts with grief; Their sorrows great what tongue can tell? The balsam of advice was brought, With drops of strict authority; Prescriptions still to shun she sought, Nor would the medicines apply. With water of forgetfulness, She oft was bid to bathe the wound: The search was vain, she did protest This water never could be found. It griev’d us much thus to behold Our counsels slighted with disdain: His feather’d darts were tipp’d with gold, Which render’d every effort vain. But conscious that our parents dear Could not behold the fatal blow, To make the stroke seem less severe, She at a distance met the foe. Her peerless charms she there resign’d, Compell’d by love’s supreme command; A clown by travels much refin’d Did eager clasp her beauteous hand. I will lament a sister lost. Ah! ladies hear my piteous moan, Depriv’d of what I once could boast, I now must keep the field alone. What though I no assistance have, I hope to act courag’ously, The subtle foe still to outbrave, And man’s seducing arts defy. The rich, the poor, the proud, the slave, The fop, the clown, the low, the tall, The gay, the giddy, or the grave, I scornfully defy them all.

WHILE o’er the plains stern winter bore the sway, And Sol from Capricorn diffus’d his ray, Nigh Bolton Gate, beneath a hawthorn shade, Two rural swains sad lamentations made: Each for an absent damsel seem’d to mourn, While throbbing breasts did sigh for sigh return. Young D——y’s notes and T—’s fond praises prov’d, That D——h T——r was the maid belov’d. Says D—k, “O had I these sweet hours again, I’ve spent with her; but ah! I wish in vain. The nymph is fled; to Manchester she’s gone, Nor heeds my sighs, nor yet regards my moan: Her cruel aunts did contribute their aid, To banish from my sight the lovely maid. O little Cupid, choose two fatal darts, And with a vengeance, send them to their hearts; May they endure the agonizing pain Of love, yet ever unbelov’d remain; And, when far hence, by death they’re doom’d to go, Then let their task be leading apes below. Young D——h was the fairest on the plain, Admir’d and lov’d by ev’ry wond’ring swain. Her charms exterior might a hero bind; But ah! the beauty that adorns her mind, To paint does far exceed my Muse’s skill. To you, dear T— I’ll now resign the quill.” Says T—, “On her the Graces seem to wait; Her form, how fair! enchanting is her gait. Her youthful charms, no tongue could e’er express; Nor does her absence render them the less. The soft impression with me still remains; I’m captive, yet I glory in my chains. With fond delight I retrospect the day, When we to E——n took our way, With hearts elate, to view the Scottish fair, Lov’d D——h sweeten’d all the pleasures there. Blest with her company upon the road, How charming seem’d each rugged path we trode? Nor could the Scottish fair such charms display; My darling reign’d the empress of the day. But ah! reflection animates my pain, Such happy days I’ll ne’er behold again. Alas! I languish now in deep despair; O that I could forget my absent fair!” While these two youths rehears’d their plaintive tale, A third came stalking o’er a distant dale: R——n his name, whose anxious looks did show, His beating bosom much oppress’d with wo. Of J——y’s charms, he in soft concert sung; J——y the gay, the beauteous, and the young; She who of late, with parson F——r stay’d, In the low station of a dairy-maid. Yet there it was she gain’d young R——n’s heart, And in her absence nought can ease his smart. O hapless lads! can nought allay your pain, Till these two charming maids return again? Is there none else can ease your tortur’d mind? None else so fair, so virt’ous and so kind? So may you think, and thus in sighs lament, Till Hymen’s fetters make you all repent. Better bewail an absent love for life, Than be tormented by a fractious wife.

DEAR madam, with joy I read over your letter; Your kindness still tends to confirm me your debtor; But can’t think of payment, the sum is so large, Tho’ farthings for guineas could buy my discharge. But, madam, the Muses are fled far away, They deem it disgrace with a milkmaid to stay. Let them go if they will, I would scorn to pursue, And can, without sighing, subscribe an adieu. Their trifling mock visits, to many so dear, Is the only disaster on earth I now fear. Sure Sillar much better had banish’d them thence, Than wrote in despite of good manners and sense: With two or three more, whose pretensions to fame Are slight as the bubble that bursts on the stream. And lest with such dunces as these I be number’d, The talk I will drop, nor with verse be incumber’d; Tho’ pen, ink and paper, are by me in store, O madam excuse, for I ne’er shall write more.