Classic Poem

To MIRA.

In the Manner of T IBULLUS .

Why, M IRA ! why this useless waste of time?
To round your nails with artificial care,
To smear your lovely locks with fulsome grime,
And add false ringlets to your glossy hair?

The irksome task of meditating dress,
Each sacrifice to fashion's labour lost;
The more you strive to please, you please the less,
— When unadorned, then adorn'd the most. —

Let the stale virgin, with cosmetic art,
To wonted bloom the faded cheek restore;
In gorgeous garments strive to gain a heart,
Who dares not trust her native beauties more.

Rouge, and false ringlets, certainly were meant
For cheeks turn'd yellow, and for locks turn'd gray;
The fringed petticoat, to hide within't
A leg that's clumsy, or a foot that's splay.

Some hoary beldam, in the natal hour,
Mumbled her incantations o'er your head;
Some beldam, skill'd in every simple's pow'r,
That grows unnoted in the vernal mead.

I wrong your sacred beauties, and profane
Their mystic energy to raise desire;
Yes, magic spells and potent herbs were vain,
Your native charms, without inchantment, fire.

Come, M IRA ! come, while in your beauty's pride
Indulge to love; away with meaner things;
In raptures lost, in love's embraces ty'd,
How filly grandeur, and the wealth of kings!

Let driv'lling dotards buy the stately dame,
To watch the foibles of declining years;
To wipe with duteous hand the ropy phlegm,
And wrap the flannel cov'ring round their ears.

To listen sleepless to the midnight moan,
Requires a jointure, and a rich reward;
And say, what settlement can e'er atone
For the gruff violence of a grisly beard?

But to enclasp the polish'd limbs of youth,
To share the secrets of a tender breast,
Where every thought is constancy and truth,
And each wish rises to make M IRA blest!

Sublimer happiness can titles yield?
Can wealth, or grandeur, greater meed bestow?
Unbias'd nature scorns the blazon'd field,
And ev'ry finer feeling answers, No.