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TO MISS R****.
113
Whose stately piles and arches yet displayThe venerable graces of decay:Thus round the withered trunk fresh shoots are seenTo shade their parent with a cheerful green.More health, dear maid! thy soothing presence bringsThan purest skies, or salutary springs.That voice, those looks such healing virtues bear,Thy sweet reviving smiles might cheer despair;On the pale lips detain the parting breath,And bid hope blossom in the shades of death.Beauty, like thine, could never reach a charmSo powerful to subdue, so sure to warm.On her loved child behold the mother gaze,In weakness pleased, and smiling through decays,And leaning on that breast her cares assuage;—How soft a pillow for declining age!
For this, when that fair frame must feel decay,—Ye Fates protract it to a distant day,—
