Epistle Vii. To A Young Lady Poem by Robert Anderson

Do thou accept, my youthful friend,
This gift of gratitude I send;
A bouquet of poetic flow'rs,
Cull'd from the Muses' fav'rite bowers,
Where no unpolish'd, 'wild'ring lay
Can tempt thee from Religion's way;
But classic wit and language clear
May feast the mind and charm the ear.

Relph, far remov'd from busy strife,
Enjoy'd the sweets of ``Quiet Life,''
And tun'd in peace his willing lyre,
Whose ``wood--notes wild'' all, all admire.
Tho' now no more the Muses tread
Where Fancy deck'd her Poet's head,
Yet pensive shepherds haunt the spring
Where first the youth was taught to sing;
And oft at eve the village maid
Decks with wild flow'rs the hallow'd shade,
Where, to each youthful folly blind,
He wisely strove t'improve the mind,
Nor deem'd his labours e'er misspent,
But sought in ``every state content.''

With care peruse the modest bard,
And, O! each moral well regard,
Whether the virtuous precept shine
In his or in Pythagoras' line;
For to the man our praise is due
Who Nature's rural scenery drew,
Where Virtue might her image view;
Whose songs beguile the winter night,
And artless shepherds still delight;
Whose pious lessons, and whose last address,
Teach mankind how to gain ``True Happiness.''