Epistle Iv. To A Young Lady Poem by Robert Anderson

Far, far from thee this heart holds dear,
Methinks I see the glist'ning tear
That dimm'd thy sparkling eye:
How long must ling'ring Memory tell
Of that sad hour thou bad'st farewell,
How long record each sigh!

Can I forget thy magic charms,
Whilst Love this tender bosom warms,
And guides my wand'ring way?
Ah, no! fond Memory loves to trace
The graceful form and matchless face
That did this heart betray.

When dusky Eve steals o'er the plain,
Gladd'ning the jocund village train,
And Mirth loud--pealing strays,
Then Fancy sees thee join the throng,
And lead the sportive dance along,
Whilst rustics on thee gaze.

Forlorn I tread each well--known round,
Where late with thee Content was found--
Thy image meets me there:
From thee no pleasure can I prize,
From thee I spend the hours in sighs,
And think of joys that were.

Nymph of the woodlands, Solitude,
Who fliest care--haunted Riot rude,
And seek'st the lonely dell,
Oft list'ning, at the close of day,
To the wild--warbling linnet's lay,
With thee, O! let me dwell.

With thee the sorrow--clouded mind
Can taste the pleasures undefin'd,
Which Contemplation gives:
Secluded from man's prying sight,
Oft let me feel that pure delight
While youthful Fancy lives;

And pensive mark the moon's pale beam,
That, sporting o'er some dimpl'd stream,
Beguiles Love's tedious hours,
When soft is heard the soothing tale
Of philomel, who thro' the vale
Her song of sadness pours.

Sweet are her step--arresting notes,
That on the gentle night--breeze floats
Along the peaceful grove;
But sweeter to her lover's ear,
When ---'s pleasing song I hear
Of innocence and love.

Gay Health, thou loveliest blooming maid,
If wand'ring near thy moss--crown'd shade,
Far from the haunt of Pride,
To thy heart--gladd'ning mystic spring,
To Pleasure's mirth--inviting ring,
Do thou her footsteps guide.

Thou soother of our keenest woes,
That dwell'st where the pure streamlet flows,
Beneath the mountain's brow,
Queen of the rosy--tinted morn!
Shield from pale Sorrow's fest'ring thorn
The lovely maid I woo.

When next, to shun the noontide heat,
She courts thee in thy cool retreat,
Where droops the willow--tree,
Pity the bright--ey'd maiden meek,
Restore the roses to her cheek,
And bid her haste to me.