To A Lady, A Patroness Of The Muses, On Her Recovery From Sickness.

TO A LADY, A PATRONESS OF THE MUSES, ON HER RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

WHILE sickness, madam, on your vitals prey'd, The sympathetic sisters shar'd your pain: I mark'd them then in sable weeds array'd, In concert sad assume the plaintive strain.

From Elly's Land was heard the harp of wo; A shepherd, once the blithest of the throng, Did mirth inspiring, sportive notes forego, And steep'd in tears the melancholy song.

From Irvine's verdant banks, a doleful lay Re-echo'd through the groves and distant dale; Each vocal throat was fill'd with dire dismay, And heart-felt sighs proclaim'd th' unwelcome tale.

Quick and unstable are the turns of Fate; 'Twixt well and wo are thin partitions rear'd: I mark'd the drooping choir with hearts elate, Exulting o'er the ills so lately fear'd.

When brooding on the verge of deep despair, A gladd'ning voice did through the groves resound; Loud acclamations fill'd the ambient air, And joy and pleasure triumph'd all around.

Health, blooming goddess, re-assum'd her sway, And did the tender, captive frame release; All seem'd intent the tidings to convey, In notes more grateful than the whisp'ring breeze.

Some greet a patroness, all hail a friend, Whose bosom feels seraphic virtues glow; Nor further, madam, do your smiles extend; Vice dreads your frown, and shuns you as a foe.

Long may you live ad'mir'd by all, and lov'd, The honour of a long illustrious race; Your worth innate, by Envy's self approv'd, Which time or sickness never can efface.