To Mris A. C.
To the Tune of, All in the Downs.
WHen beauty blazes heavenly bright,
The muse can no more cease to sing,
Than can the lark with rising light,
Her notes neglect with drooping wing.
The morning shines, harmonious birds mount by;
The dawning beauty smiles, and poets fly.
Young Annie’s budding graces claim
The inspir’d thought, and softest lays,
And kindle in the breast a flame,
Which must be vented in her praise.
Tell us, ye gentle shepherds, have you seen
E’er one so like an angle tread the green.
Ye youth, be watchful of your hearts;
When she appears, take the alarm:
Love on her beauty points his darts,
And wings an arrow from each charm.
Around her eyes and smiles the graces sport,
And to her snowy neck and breast resort.
But vain must every caution prove;
When such inchanting sweetness shines,
The wounded swain must yield to love,
And wonder, tho’ he hopeless pines.
Such flames the foppish butterfly shou’d shun;
The eagle’s only fit to view the sun.
She’s as the opening lilly fair;
Her lovely features are compleat;
Whilst heaven indulgent makes her share
With angels all that’s wise and sweet.
These virtues which divinely deck her mind,
Exalt each beauty of th’ inferior kind.
Whether she love the rural scenes,
Or sparkle in the airy town,
O! happy he her favour gains,
Unhappy! if she on him frown.
The muse unwilling quits the lovely theme,
Adieu she sings, and thrice repeats her name.