A
LETTER
to
Lady
F—
.
From
the
Other
World
.
From
the
Elysian
Fields
I
sing
,
Where
ever
blooms
the
balmy
Spring
:
From
Roseat
Groves
and
Myrtle
Shades
,
That
not
a
sultry
Beam
invades
.
Each
Grove
with
heav'nly
Music
rings
,
And
Odours
rise
on
Zephyrs
Wings
.
Mild
Glory
lightens
all
the
Bow'rs
,
And
purest
Pleasure
wings
the
Hours
.
While
crystal
Streams
,
incircling
,
flow
Through
all
the
flow'ry
Vales
below
;
That
in
the
softest
Murmurs
thrill
,
Adown
each
slow-descending
Hill
.
Where
grows
immortalizing
Fruit
,
For
ever
giving
fresh
Recruit
.
No
drowsy
Slumbers
close
the
Eyes
In
these
gay
Regions
of
the
Skies
.
Nor
Dream
a
frightful
Form
assumes
,
Impress'd
by
indigested
Fumes
.
Nor
aking
Head
from
heated
Brain
,
Disease
,
nor
,
its
Attendant
,
Pain
.
Here
,
no
despairing
Lover
dies
;
No
base
Deluder
cheats
with
Lyes
,
Nor
come
or
jealous
Cares
or
Sighs
.
Nor
Eye
e'er
drops
a
briny
Tear
;
For
Truth
and
Love
are
native
here
.
Each
Spirit
has
his
Task
assign'd
As
pleases
best
,
or
suits
his
Mind
.
Some
to
the
central
Sun
descend
;
Some
to
the
neighb'ring
Planets
tend
;
Nor
some
so
small
a
Space
can
bound
,
As
does
old
Saturn's
annual
Round
;
But
through
the
vast
unbounded
Space
,
Their
Maker's
Works
with
Rapture
trace
.
Of
this
small
Surface
losing
Sight
,
Amidst
Ten
Thousand
Worlds
of
Light
,
Some
tune
their
golden
Harps
,
and
sing
The
boundless
Glories
of
their
King
.
Or
how
from
Chaos
Nature
rose
,
How
central
Fires
these
Scenes
shall
close
.
How
at
the
last
important
Day
,
All
shall
the
Trumpet's
Voice
obey
,
With
Horror
some
,
and
some
with
Joy
.
Some
on
the
kindest
Errands
fly
,
Adown
the
azure
hilly
Sky
;
And
whisper
Celia
in
the
Ear
,
"
Of
yon
deluding
Fop
beware
.
"
To
Strephon
,
when
the
sparkling
Wine
Does
to
Excess
his
Soul
incline
;
"
Exert
the
Man
,
and
fly
the
Bait
;
"
See
Poison
on
the
Pleasure
wait
.
"
And
,
pointing
to
the
tempting
Fair
,
"
Disease
,
ill
Fame
,
and
Guilt
are
there
.
"
Bids
Reason
guide
his
erring
Feet
,
And
ev'ry
Virtue
grow
complete
.
Bids
Wit
,
within
due
Bounds
confin'd
,
Adorn
,
and
not
debauch
,
his
Mind
.
If
Strephon's
deaf
,
away
they
fly
,
And
,
griev'd
,
they
mount
their
native
Sky
.
They
leave
him
'
midst
a
lighter
Band
,
Of
airy
Beings
still
at
hand
;
Who
left
the
World
with
tainted
Breast
,
With
their
own
Follies
still
impress'd
,
Envious
,
deceitful
,
and
unblest
.
Who
hover
round
with
downward
Flight
,
Visit
in
Dreams
at
Dead
of
Night
;
Fill
Myra's
Head
with
Dukes
and
Earls
,
And
Equipage
,
and
costly
Pearls
.
Bid
Strephon
dance
,
and
drink
,
and
play
,
Turn
Day
to
Night
,
and
Night
to
Day
;
Till
Health
,
and
Fame
,
and
Fortune
flies
,
Strephon
repents
,
despairs
,
and
dies
.
These
tuneful
Pope
calls
Nomes
and
Sylphs
;
These
Britons
took
for
fairy
Elves
;
The
Genius
was
the
Pagan
Name
;
They
gave
their
Bards
and
Sages
Fame
.
And
Milton
,
Pope
,
and
Dryden
fir'd
;
And
Clarke
and
Newton
these
inspir'd
.
Nor
Strephon
,
nor
does
Celia
know
But
from
themselves
their
Reas'nings
flow
.
By
Sounds
so
gently
we
pervade
,
So
unperceiv'd
the
Trace
is
made
,
And
Picture
to
the
Mind
convey'd
.
This
Message
,
F—
,
to
you
I
bear
;
You
was
my
Friend
,
are
now
my
Care
.
Your
sprightly
Wit
,
that
all
admire
,
Is
an
unlicens'd
lawless
Fire
.
Restrain
its
wild
impetuous
Course
;
And
give
your
Reason
all
its
Force
.
And
let
that
Reason
be
your
Rule
:
Things
sacred
bear
no
Ridicule
.
Be
to
your
better
Self
but
true
,
Then
ev'ry
Grace
will
shine
in
You
.