Epistle The Fourth Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE,
ON HER BIRTH--DAY.

This is thy natal day. Now thrice seven times
Hath Spring, still welcome, scatter'd o'er the earth
Her fost'ring dews, then with her joyous train
A flow'r--wov'n carpet spread o'er many a mead,
While caroll'd each wild warbler; thrice seven times
Hath savage Winter ravish'd Autumn's charms,
Since first thou saw the light. Fair innccent!
From that blest hour which gave thee to this world,
This world of vanity, this world of care,
Where wealth is honour'd, worth oft doom'd to pine,
Ne'er hath bright Sol shone on a sweeter flow'r;
A winter rose, not ``born to blush unseen.''
May'st thou, when many years have o'er thee roll'd,
And time, relentless tyrant, beauty's foe,
Hath furrow'd that fair face, with smiles behold,
In blest retirement, tranquilliz'd thy mind,
Sol's cheering beams, then think of well--spent years;
Prepar'd to seek the Christian's sure reward,
As sinking to thy last sad narrow bed!
This thy friend wisheth. Friend unknown to fame;
Who spite of jaundic'd slander, bloated wealth,
Who spite of the fool's scorn, will ever give
To modest worth, to genius pure, its due.

Health, rosy health, presided at thy birth,
And watch'd thy infant slumbers. Plump--cheek'd mirth
Enraptur'd, gaz'd, then mark'd thee for her own.
Next, mild religion with parental care,
Rear'd the young shoot, with finger held to Heav'n.
Genius, who scorns the multitude, whose smile
No diadem can purchase, heav'nly maid;
Who with a spark divine the mind illumes,
And makes each fav'rite soothe a brother's woes,
Nurs'd thee, her darling. Hope, with uplift hands,
The cherub bless'd; then promis'd happy days.
But hope's a fair deceiver. Gaily drest,
She whispers man of countless joys in store;
And by her smiles, alas! he's oft undone!
Grave wisdom, with instruction by her side,
Oft pleas'd to hear thy lisping accents sweet,
Wou'd point to many a flow'ry path, which leads
To fame's far distant temple. High it stands;
And thousands try in vain to climb the mount,
Access still eager hoping. Careful, she
The thorns secreted from thy ardent gaze,
And lur'd thy feet the steps they oft have trod.

Ne'er was thy cradle the sad couch of care,
Nor did pale sorrow ever rock thee in it.
Life's morn was fair as fleeting: all a dream;
A fev'rish dream, time ne'er must realize!

How little thought the rose--cheek'd beauteous groupe,
When dear associates in each fairy scene,
Rev'lers in bliss uncloy'd, a few short years
Wou'd find thee musing o'er the midnight lamp;
A young but great instructress. Chilling, now,
With horror wild, the youthful reader's frame;
As in idea, o'er thy glowing works,
He fondly bends, and shudders at each sound,
Some spectre dreading. Next the gothic stairs,
Scar'd, slow ascending, he at length beholds
In chamber gloomy, some sad captive, pale,
Woe--worn, and ghastly. Some angelic maid,
Stol'n from her home, a virtuous sacrifice
To lordly man, foul image of his Maker.
The scene now changes; nature's children please;
And love's delights, Arcadian sweets surprise.
The reader mingles with some village groupe,
And joins the evening dance; and revelry;
Or with them roams, aided by Luna's beam,
Pale empress of the night. Perchance he sees
Some tow'r half--hid, and half--embrown'd by shade;
While on his ear the bird of sorrow flings
Her sad, but soothing song. Long may'st thou lead,
Daughter of magic, with thy high--wrought scenes
(Where pure morality adorns thy page,
And virtue shines a mirror to each sex,
While guilt's dark deeds provoke Heav'n's bitter wrath)
The mind a willing captive. May reward
Still crown thy labors, friend to all mankind!
Nor e'er the Muse desert thee! Yes! ev'n now,
Methinks thy name 'midst Erin's gifted fair
Will live recorded, on the lists of fame.

Ah! little dreamt thou, child of innocence,
In infancy, life's golden happy age,
A few short years wou'd find thee sorrow's child;
And sickness spread for thee a painful couch!
Guileless thy heart. How little didst thou know
Ev'n with a mind well stor'd, th' unfeeling world!
But let me o'er thy wrongs throw friendship's veil,
Nor irritate a sore, not yet half heal'd.
The feeling heart my pen shall never wound;
No man is he, who sports with virtue's tears!

Now when December with his thousand storms,
Ah! dreaded month, to many a houseless wretch!
In frozen snow--clad mantle sweeps the vale,
Wither'd and leafless, ruin scattering round,
Peaee to thy cot! May health, coy, rosy fair,
And blithe content long thy companions be;
While changing seasons yield thee greater bliss!

Unenvying, thou canst view yon bustling town,

Where high ambition rears a haughty head;
And all is commerce, craft, and cank'ring care.
This wild unpolish'd lay should'st thou approve,
I'll smiling, scorn the learn'd reader's sneer.