Epistle The Seventh Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MR. ROBERT ANDERSON, ON READING SOME OF HIS BEAUTIFUL POEMS IN THE BELFAST NEWS--LETTER, BY GAELUS.

Hail Anderson! nature's sweet bard,
(For nature gives birth to thy lay
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?

Permit me, tho' wild is the strain,
My tribute of praise to bestow;
Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,
Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.

Thy songs with delight I have read,
Which flow like a smooth--gliding stream,
And sympathy's tear I have shed,
As oft as distress was thy theme.

Nor would I those pleasures resign,
Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,
To call the whole universe mine,
And rank with the unfeeling train.

Thy Outcast, poor victim of woe,
I've heard on the desolate heath,
And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,
Releas'd from her sorrows by death.

Thy Widow's affecting complaint,
Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;
What mortal could hear her lament.
And not make her sorrows his own.

Poor Annie's extravagant song
Beguiles me of many a sigh;
Such wild accents fall from her tongue,
As oft steal a tear from my eye.

Sweet Bard! what sensations divine
Thy exquisite ditties impart!
Simplicity dwells in each line,
Yet strongly they speak to the heart.

And still as I read with delight,
Hope tells me of some happy day,
When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.

Oh! come thou dear moment of joy!
No anguish my bosom should rend,
Nor care my sweet visions destroy,
If blest with so gentle a friend.

Sweet poet of nature! adieu!
May fame be the meed of thy lays;
That fame which no change will subdue,
When time shall have number'd thy days!