Poems (Mitford)/To Mr. Pratt
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toMR. PRATT.
As, on some festive day, the village maid,
In simple robe, with neatest art array'd,
Her modest beauty careful to adorn,
Seeks the fair flow'rs that deck the dewy mom;
Nor needs the diamonds of the courtly fair,
Whilst native gems entwine her flowing hair:
So, Bard of "Sympathy!" thy artless lay
O'er the charm'd heart still bears resistless sway;
Whether Britannia's "Poor," with Goldsmith's lyre,
Thou sing'st, in strains that breathe celestial fire;
Or, lead'st us through her cities and her vales,
Her hills, her woods, her uplands, and her dales;
Or, while with fancied ills thy bosom glows,
Thou tell'st the tale of hapless Emma's woes;
The pow'rful fictions make us truly feel,
And trickling tears our sympathy reveal.
In simple robe, with neatest art array'd,
Her modest beauty careful to adorn,
Seeks the fair flow'rs that deck the dewy mom;
Nor needs the diamonds of the courtly fair,
Whilst native gems entwine her flowing hair:
So, Bard of "Sympathy!" thy artless lay
O'er the charm'd heart still bears resistless sway;
Whether Britannia's "Poor," with Goldsmith's lyre,
Thou sing'st, in strains that breathe celestial fire;
Or, lead'st us through her cities and her vales,
Her hills, her woods, her uplands, and her dales;
Or, while with fancied ills thy bosom glows,
Thou tell'st the tale of hapless Emma's woes;
The pow'rful fictions make us truly feel,
And trickling tears our sympathy reveal.