You see, my dear, (nor think it rare,)
How complaisant we Poets are,

When gentle Ladies sue;

Your letter came, your vows were heard,

And lo! the nonsense of your Bard

Comes dancing back to you.

Yet heed not thou the Poet's trim,

But deem this idle child of whim

A simple letter still;

Then, tho' the words in numbers flow,

My thoughts are privileg'd, you know,
To wander as they will.

And trust me, tho' they wander wide,

The Muse their little flight shall guide

To rest at last on you;

And oh! forgive the artless theme,

Should serious numbers ill beseem

I own that Fancy gaily drest,

May suit a youthful Poet best,

To bribe a youthful ear;

And e'en my Jane perchance would smile, Should Flattery's voice her heart beguile, The Syren tale to hear.

But Fancy is an idle thing,

That flutters high on gilded wing

The sport of every wind:

And Flattery, as she murmurs by,

Tho' sweet her hum and honied thigh,
May leave a sting behind.

Then pass the follies of the day,

The noontide breakfast, midnight play,

That charm the simpering Belle;

Gay parties blest by Ladies fair,

Where we poor Poets seldom are,

For reasons sad to tell.

Pass too the soft and tinkling chime,

That shepherds smit with love of rhime

To frowning maids rehearse; When Damon grovelling on the earth, Sighs Goddesses and Angels forth In Namby Pamby verse.

Alas! those humble strains alone,

Which Truth's severer eye may own, My simple love can give:

A kindred love, by nature taught

To breathe in every ardent thought,
And triumph while we live.

And life, my Jane, wears on apace,
Though yet to us the busy race

Appear but now begun;

Swift glides the smiling morn away,
And evening hastes in mantle gray
To hail the setting sun.

Oh! may your morn unclouded shine, And pleasures genuine, pure, divine,

In transport dance along;

And evening, as it closes in,

Unhurt by care, unstain'd by sin,

The blissful scene prolong.

And see, the spirits bounding high,
The frolic wit, the sparkling eye,

A buoyant heart declare;

The rosy cheek of purest bloom,

That smiles at dangers yet to come,
If dangers yet there are.

Then hence each dark presage of ill;
That roving eye shall sparkle still,

Those playful accents flow:

That joy is transient all agree,
But if the mind be pure and free,
Why so is sorrow too.

Chill is the wisdom, e'en tho' true,
That paints in shades of deepest hue
The path we all must tread:

Blest, who to shadowy prospects blind,
Can move with firm yet cheerful mind,
By Faith and Virtue led.

Heaven knows, my Jane, what you or me

Some fifty summers hence may be;

And Heaven that knows will guide:

The present is our proper care,

And they who study what they are,

For future years provide.

Oh! I could tell how wasted time

But Jenny sure will seize the prime,
And every hour employ;

And better may her care succeed;

So shall a purer virtue lead

To more substantial joy.

Say, would she live the Poet's theme?

Let ev'ry artless feature beam

With innocence and truth;

Where modesty and goodness shine,
The female face is half divine,

Without the aid of youth.

So shall the charms which Nature gave,

(For charms you know all Ladies have,)

The fleeting years survive;

And emulous of brighter days,

Beauty shall lend her mildest rays

To beam at fifty-five.

Say would she win-[Here about fifteen stanzas are lost, of which the writer has only recollection enough to speak to their general excellence, as greatly superior to that of any which precede or follow them.]