To Mrs. King, On Her Kind Present To The Author, A Patchwork Counterpane Of Her Own Making.

The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken'd by a call Both on his heart and head, To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, On Ida's barren top sublime, (As Homer's epic shows) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers, For Jove and Juno rose. Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which in the scorching day Receives the weary swain, Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, Till roused to toil again. What labours of the loom I see! Looms numberless have groan'd for me! Should every maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears, The bell would toll for some. And oh, what havoc would ensue! This bright display of every hue All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers— Each pocketing a shred. Thanks then to every gentle fair Who will not come to peck me bare As bird of borrow'd feather, And thanks to one above them all, The gentle fair of Pertenhall, Who put the whole together.