[To Lady Charlotte Gordon, dressed in a Tartan Scotch Bonnet, with Plumes, &c .]
1
Why, lady, wilt them bind thy lovely brow
With the dread semblance of that warlike helm;
That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow,
That graced the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm?
2
Thou know'st that Virtue is of power the source,
And all her magic to thy eyes is given;
We own their empire, while we feel their force,
Beaming with the benignity of heaven.
3
The plumy helmet and the martial mien
Might dignify Minerva's awful charms;
But more resistless far the Idalian queen—
Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
[Epitaph: being part of an Inscription designed for a Monument erected by a Gentleman to the Memory of his Lady]
Farewell, my best beloved! whose heavenly mind
Genius with virtue, strength with softness join'd;
Devotion, undebased by pride or art,
With meek simplicity, and joy of heart:
Though sprightly, gentle; though polite, sincere;
And only of thyself a judge severe:
Unblamed, unequall'd in each sphere of life,
The tenderest daughter, sister, parent, wife.
In thee, their patroness the afflicted lost;
Thy friends their pattern, ornament, and boast;
And I—but ah, can words my loss declare,
Or paint the extremes of transport and despair!
O thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell—
My guide, my friend, my best beloved, farewell!