Address to Mrs. B

Charlotte, to thee, whose gentle breast Of innate goodness is possest, To thee a friendly Muse appeals For truth of what her Tale reveals.

From Gallia's once delightful shore Thy Sire the sacred symbol bore, And oft exulted to expand, The test of an Almighty hand, The wondrous test of bounty giv'n To humble worth by fav'ring Heav'n. Thy Sire! the well-remember'd name Lays on the Muse a sacred claim To speak his fascinating pow'r, Who wak'd to glee the scenic hour; The private walk of life endear'd, And many an aching bosom cheer'd; Who liv'd applauded and approv'd, And died regretted and belov'd. This thy dear parent's well-earn'd praise Deserves the mead of richer lays.

Here might the Muse with volant quill From COWLEY pass to sweet Rose-Hill, With Mem'ry take a random flight, Whirl'd in delirium of delight; Dwell on the name of JOHNNY BEARD, The friend, who ev'ry spot endear'd; Recording the familiar chat, Oft "here he stray'd," and "there he sate;" Or, all beneath yon aged oak, He twirl'd the pun, or coin'd the joke; Or lengthen'd out the ev'ning walk On subjects grave, in moral talk; Or cheerly wak'd the rosy morn With chaunting clear his early horn.

Of more exalted worth the Muse would speak, But needless were the task, and words too weak, For his innate benevolence of soul, Fond to dispense the charitable dole, That energy, wherewith he sought the haunt Of crippled age, of malady, or want, And all the virtues which the Muse could find Lodg'd in the casket of his consort's mind, (Which scarce a MASON's pen could amply grace) Will be recorded in a better place.