LETTER X.
High Harrogate, September 21st.
For my silence these three weeks your pardon I ask,
But really dear mother all writing's a task,
Save for sonnets to Agnes I do not know when,
My run-a-way fingers laid hold of a pen,
But I trust your indulgence will freely excuse,
This natural fault in my negligent muse,
Since she now comes before you in very great sorrow,
To tell you I part with my charmer to-morrow,
Tho' the Dragon's quite full and the company gay,
And a ball at the Queen's-head is promis'd to-day,
Yet when Agnes is gone I most plainly can see,
This place will have lost all attraction for me,
And I think when the coach and my lovely one in it
Drives away, that I too must be off the next minute,
Consolation to find in my mother's kind greeting,
And forming good plans for our next pleasant meeting.
Then fare ye well Harrogate—dear to my heart,
Be the joys you inspire and the health you impart,
May your springs ever flow an immutable treasure,
And the breeze that blows o'er you be freighted with pleasure;
Farewell to your Doctors—more skilful and kind,
Not a Spa on the Island can promise to find,
But chiefly my own must I leave with regret,
For a sigh to our parting is gratitude's debt,
His suavity, modesty, knowledge, and truth,
Where the wisdom of age, joins the candour of youth,
Have made me so truly esteem and respect him,
While I value true worth I can never neglect him.
No more must I saunter along the Parade,
Or fly for a tune to the gay Promenade,
At Wilson's exhibit my knowledge or wit,
Or step into Wright's for my picture to sit,
At Robey's or Bachelor's loiter to chuse,
A broach or a ring while I hear all the news,
Or ride on the common and gladly inhale,
The spirit of strength from the heath-scented gale
But tho' to your pleasures I now bid adieu,
Be assur'd that next year shall those pleasures renew,
Renew and exceed for on Hymen's white wing,
To these haunts so belov'd I my Agnes may bring,
The hopes of that blessing my cares shall beguile,
And I leave thee dear Harrogate now with a smile.