To Mrs. M—S. Pardon, much honour'd Fair! this humble lay, Nor scorn the tribute Gratitude may pay; No rapturous Muse e'er warm'd my rustic breast, Nor dare I own the bright exalted guest: Far flies the Muse where radiant Science reigns, Inspires the soul, and elevates her strains; Then rapture, melody, and sense conspire, And Phoebus fiercely twangs the sprightly lyre; Far let her fly — if Gratitude be mine, Her voice shall match the whole harmonious Nine; The full-fraught heart, with fiercer ardors rise, And pierce, resistless, thro' yon azure skies; Nor pauses short of the Celestial Throne, But seeks the ear she's certain is her own; There loudly sounds — a voice by Mercy given, Whilst echoes vibrate thro' the vaults of Heaven, There sounds your name, while list'ning Angels bend The well-tun'd harp, and to the tale attend. In that great day when mingled nations stand — Some wish, some dread Jehovah's last command, Shall not my little ones, with ardour raise Your plaudit high, who prop their infant days; Whose voice has call'd them from the depths of woe, Suppress'd the sigh, forbad the tear to flow? Low on the earth, by anguish crush'd, I lay — I mourn'd the night, nor hail'd the coming day, When bright Aurora tipp'd the Eastern skies, Hearts bless'd with plenty bade the Goddess rise; Not so with me — to Misery resign'd, On her cold lap my wretched head reclin'd; Around, grim horrors take their ghastly stand, And Famine executes her dire command, Nor once relents; — the tear reluctant flows, Not for my own, but for my infants' woes: The Stoic's sullen gloom had fill'd my soul, Forbad the sigh, and check'd the tears that roll; Ev'n smiling Hope, soft soother of the mind, Like Milton's Guardian Angel, had resign'd Her charge as lost; homeward to Heaven she flies, And grim Despair, and all her furies rise; O, dismal Fiend! to thee I give the world, From all its joys, and shadowy visions hurl'd; The contest o'er, eternal worlds are mine, Where ransom'd spirits taste repose divine.