Epistle The Eleventh Poem by Robert Anderson

TO A YOUNG LADY IN BELFAST

Thanks for thy letter, best of friends!
On it my life of life depends.
Fair moralizer! whose warm heart
May balm to any mind impart;
I gaze enraptur'd on each line,
Where wisdom shews in truths divine
The dang'rous path, the wily snare,
That still mislead, that cause each care;
The pois'ners of man's purest joy,
That wealth, and health, and life destroy.

Dear beauteous comforter! whose smiles
Ev'n sorrow of her sting beguiles,
Whate'er thro' life my fate may be,
My grateful thanks are due to thee;
And till this pulse shall cease to beat,
Thy name with ardour I'll repeat;
Delighted, ever, to peruse
Thy favors, fav'rite of the Muse!

To thee, this humble verse I pour,
The musing of a midnight hour;
Weak flows the lay, my friend must own,
For youth and fancy now are flown;
I mark life's autumn, overcast,
Whilst mem'ry pauses on the past:
Truth holds her mirror to my view,
And bids me virtue still pursue.

No more of pleasure's airy round!
Too long I've slept in rose--leaf'd bow'rs;
And trod on fairy ground,
With folly by my side;
Nor number'd e'er the passing hours.
For hope, delusive flatterer, was my guide;
And with her fairest flow'rs,
That blossoming did decay,
She, smiling, strew'd my way;
And life's short morn was nought but empty pride.
By hope a willing victim led,
Soon reason from me fled;
Then pleas'd, each distant prospect fair
With partial eye I view'd;
And mock'd the busy spoiler care,
And laugh'd to hear of man's ingratitude.
Now wak'd, as from a dream,
How sad, alas! I seem!
While meek religion whispers, Heav'nwards turn!
Then, O my thoughts surmount the sky,
And from all worldly follies fly;
Ere dim life's lamp begins to burn!
While others vainly study how to live,
Let me the hours to meditation give;
And study how to die!