With joy I view the sweetly, vari’d scene, The winding vale, and groves of vernal green. The garden will my fancy long detain, And those fair fields that wave with yellow grain. The blooming trees that form a sylvan shade, And those sweet bow’rs for contemplation made. Would some propitious pow’r but grant my boon, Send some kind genii with an air-balloon; Take me aloft, and safe convey with care, Straight to the bonny blooming banks of Air; To Loudoun castle soon I’d bend my way, And all its beauties joyfully survey. The gothic structure, and its fair domains, Most amply would compensate all my pains. With you, dear Jenny, I would pass some hours, Amongst its shady walks and fragrant bow’rs. Of poetry and poets talk by turns, And pleas’d make comments on the far-fam’d Burns. ANOTHER _EPISTLE TO NELL_. While Phœbus did our summer arbours cheer, And joys Autumnal crown’d our circling year; Even then my thoughts to you excursions made, And ardently the bypast scenes survey’d; Where oft we met in Eccles’ peaceful bow’rs, While social pleasure mark’d the passing hours. From these sweet scenes I found myself remov’d, I fear’d no more remember’d or belov’d. Forgot by Nell, friendship seem’d sincere, Such cold neglect, who undisturb’d could bear? Mild Autumn now resigns to rougher skies, And frightful storms, in wild commotion, rise. The tempest howls, while dark December reigns, And scatters desolation o’er the plains. Just as the sun bursts from the wintry cloud, Which oft does now his native glory shroud, Your welcome letter cheers my anxious soul; For humour, wit, and friendship grace the whole. Well pleas’d I find you on Parnassus’ hill; The more I read, the more I prize your skill. The Muses coy, you seem to catch with ease, And unfatigu’d attain the art to please. Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath pursue, In time perhaps you may receive your due. We’ll beat the bushes for the rustic muse, Where ev’ry dunce her inspiration sues. ’Mongst the vast crowd, let you and I aspire To share a little of Apollo’s fire. If Fortune prove, like Cupid, ever blind, We may perhaps some petty favour find; But if no more we gain by these our lays, We’ll please ourselves with one another’s praise. AN EPISTLE _TO A LADY_. _November, 1789._ While Morcham does your much lov’d presence share, And Lydia’s health claims your maternal care, O Madam, deign with candour to peruse A rustic lay, presented by the Muse. From Loudoun’s plains she now awakes the lyre, And gladly would to arduous feats aspire. On the smooth margin of the stream reclin’d, She fondly hopes to please a taste refin’d. What tho’ she boast of no peculiar charm, That would the critic of his force disarm? She humbly deprecates your doom severe, And fain would wish to find you partial here. The Muse alone does this indulgence claim, Else it were impious such a thought to frame.