Classic Poem

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE .

No, gentle Ladies! — he on Brighton's flood,
Who deck'd with N — — s' name a feeble page;
For you, the guardians of the fair and good,
Has arm'd no bitter stings of Satan's rage.

On impious necks the Muse of Vengeance treads,
For shameless Folly dips her shafts in gall;
While, droppinGodours on your virtuous heads,
The dews of praise, a precious ointment, fall.

Your N — — m's mind in every virtue grew,
In every grace, beneath your sweet control;
In genuine lustre were preserv'd by you
Her polish'd form, reflecting all the soul.

Her candid smiles, unconscious of their worth,
Her blush of nature, without other dye;
You taught her modest eyes to love the earth,
Or soar in flaming rapture to the sky.

Her, the best gift of Heaven, its gracious love
Permitted to your guidance — come and share
The joy of virtuous souls, whose toils improve
The talents trusted to their fruitful care;

" Come, faithful servants" — hear a voice proclaim
Your hymn of triumph — 'tis no song of mine;
'Tis Heaven that calls you to partake your fame
With God the giver, and this gift divine.