Nor will she deign to pour her mystic strain.
In the gross aperture of ears profane.

Observe her caution and conceal her verse,

So shall her future lays your future deeds rehearse : The mountain echoes pleas'd shall hear the sound, Old heroes ghosts shall lean from clouds around, To hail the blooming Chief, with early laurels crown'd!

S3

то

MISS WALLIS,

WITH A SPRIG OF CRIMSON HEATH WHICH GREW

ON THE SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN.

"Those looks demure that deeply touch the soul, "Where, with the light of thoughtful Reason join'd, "Shine lively Fancy, and the feeling heart."

THOMSON.

MUSE that lov'st the lonely mountain,

Cliff abrupt, and rocky glen,

Rushy dell and mossy fountain,

Free from strife and far from men :

Muse that lov'st to worship Nature
In her haunts sublimely wild,
Hail the maid whose every feature

Speaks her Nature's darling child.

Nurs'd on Inspiration's bosom,
Drest by meek Simplicity,

She in youth's luxuriant blossom
Truth and Nature loves like thee.

Deck'd with chaste and artless graces,
While her form adorns the stage,
Fancy pleas'd recals the traces
Of a former, better age;

When the virgin's sweet suffusion,
Timid look, and modest air,
Gentle fears, and soft confusion,
Shrunk before the public stare.

'Tis not that thy tragic sister
Wraps her in her crimson stole,
Or that comic powers assist her,
While she fascinates the soul.

'Tis not that applausive thunder

Shakes the scene when she appears,

That she draws the gaze of wonder,
And unlocks the spring of tears:

'Tis not that capricious fashion

Hails her idol of the day; But that general adulation

O'er her breast obtains no sway.

That the charities and duties
Which domestic life endear,
Add new lustre to her beauties,
Even in wisdom's view severe.

Lovely WALLIS, these are graces That awake the Muse's flame; And to these sequester'd places Have convey'd thy honour'd name

Pattern bright of filial duty,

Kindest sister, truest friend,

On thy innocence and beauty
Still may guardian sylphs attend!

Keep and wear this crimson blossom,

Place it near thy generous heart,

'Tis a charm that from thy bosom

Can repel detraction's dart.

On yon mountain's summit ærial,
Far above the clouds it grew,
Fann'd by purest gales ethereal,
Fed by bright celestial dew.

No voluptuous scents exhaling,
Deck'd with no luxurious dye,
Fiercest storms in vain assailing,
Blooming 'midst the wint❜ry sky.

Type of virtue's wreaths victorious, Flowering on the craggy height, Those who mount with ardour glorious Pay their labour with delight,