Classic Poem

ADDRESSED TO MISS M [ ARIA ] R [ UMSEY ], OF BRISTOL .

Revolving in their destined sphere,
The hours begin another year,
As rapidly to fly;
Ah! think, Maria, (ere in grey
Those auburn tresses fade away,)
So youth and beauty die.

Though now the captivated throng
Adore with flattery and song,
And all before you bow;
Whilst, unattentive to the strain,
You hear the humble Muse complain,
Or wreath your frowning brow:

Though poor Pitholeon's feeble line,
In opposition to the nine,
Still violates your name:
Though tales of passion, meanly told,
As dull as Cumberland, as cold,
Strive to confess a flame:

Yet, when that bloom and dancing fire
In silvered reverence shall expire,
Aged, wrinkled, and defaced;
To keep one lover's flame alive
Requires the genius of a Clive,
With Walpole's mental taste.

Though rapture wantons in your air,
Though beyond simile you're fair,
Free, affable, serene;
Yet still one attribute divine
Should in your composition shine —
Sincerity, I mean.

Though numerous swains before you fall,
'Tis empty admiration all,
'Tis all that you require;
How momentary are their chains!
Like you, how unsincere the strains
Of those who but admire!

Accept, for once, advice from me,
And let the eye of censure see
Maria can be true:
No more for fools or empty beaux
Heaven's representatives disclose,
Or butterflies pursue;

Fly to your worthiest lover's arms,
To him resign your swelling charms,
And meet his generous breast:
Or, if Pitholeon suits your taste,
His muse, with tattered fragments graced,
Shall read your cares to rest!