You midst gay crowds reside, I, hid in shades

You midst gay crowds reside, I, hid in shades,
Rove by the mazy stream through flowery meads;
Ah! flowery, did I say? alas! no more
Those meads with spangled robes are covered o'er;
Their leafy honours from the groves are torn,
And down the winding stream impetuous borne:
The painted birds forsake the naked wood,
And seek in hospitable yards their food;
The purling rills, that o'er the pebbles mourned,
Are now to deep and rapid currents turned;
Soft Philomela now no more complains,
Nor tells her woeful tale in pensive strains;
An universal change around appears,
The dreary face of winter nature wears.

Exalted now on iron stilts I move,
Through dirt, with cane supported, fearless rove,
Till rooted deep upon the yielding plain,
A breathing monument awhile remain,
To warn each wandering she my fate to shun,
Nor such defiling, dirty hazards run.

At length returning to my humble cell,
Closed in with dirt, at home contented dwell;
Now think, work, read, then write a line or two,
Talk, hear, then take a pinch, and think on you;
For still the snuff-box shines with golden grace,
Nor does one scratch its polished charms deface;
Still well replenished with ambrosial dust,
Breathing rich odours fresh as at the first,
Though many a pinch each day the nose regales,
And well supplies the loss of fragrant vales.

Thus time, beneath whose mighty, ponderous weight
So many wretches groan, I still find light.
Such generously upon their friends bestow
A heavy thing they know not where to throw;
But lest you of this tribe should think me one,
I'm sure 'tis best in prudence to have done,
Nor rob you of your better managed time,
Nor tire your patience with my tedious rhyme;
And am, with every compliment which due is,
Your most obedient servant, E STHER Lewis .
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