An Answer To A Poetical Epistle Poem by Anne MacVicar Grant

YES , even amid these wilds forlorn,
Where, shivering on the naked spray,
The drooping songsters seem to mourn
The languid sun's declining ray;
While Nature faints in Winter's icy arms,
My DELIA'S tender strain my pensive bosom warms.
Ah! why does still that well-known strain
In sadly-plaintive numbers flow?
Must time and friendship mix in vain
Their lenient balm to soothe thy woe?
Ye Powers, who piety and truth reward,
Why could not these your spotless votary guard!
While round thy cradle Pity's doves
Fond hovering pour'd their tender moan,
And all the pure and guiltless loves
Exulting, hail'd thee for their own:
They fled, repell'd by Wisdom's frown severe,
While Patience hush'd the babe and wip'd its tender tear.
Cease, then, dear partner of my breast,
Whose every joy and grief are mine;
And hush each gloomy care to rest,
For virtue's purest rays are thine:
Her cheering beams should gild thy languid hours,
As flow'rets shine, refresh'd by morning showers.
Oh! why with selfish sorrow mourn,
And frequent pour the lonely tear;
While beams of heavenly light adorn
The parted soul, so justly dear.
Enough to Nature's weakness now is given,
Let faith take wing, and seek her native heaven.
Nor mourn thy banish'd EDWIN'S fate,
Though far remov'd from hope and thee;
Nor pining view with vain regret
Unerring Wisdom's stern decree.
Though filial love thy tenderest sorrows claim,
And every virtue brighten EDWIN'S name.
While Wisdom sways thy EDWIN'S breast,
And Fancy strews his path with flowers,
Although by hopeless love depress'd,
The pensive pleasures haunt his bowers:
And where the myrtle and the willow twine,
He rears a mossy seat, and fondly calls it thine.
When filial duty sway'd thy heart,
And bade thee EDWIN'S vows decline,
With sad reluctance see him part,
And every tender wish resign:
With weeping admiration I beheld,
And sadly triumph'd while my friend excell'd.
Let Grecia boast the duteous dame
Whose breast sustain'd her captive sire;
The Muses consecrate her name,
And crowds her pictur'd form admire:
With conscious pride, heroic maid, I see
The Grecian daughter far outshone by thee!
The milky stream spontaneous flow'd,
No warring passions were at strife,
Her being to her sire she ow'd,
And Nature cry'd--Preserve his life!
But sure a more exalted meed is thine,
Whose struggling heart has bled at beauty's shrine!