ANSWER
to
a
LETTER
From
the
Hon.
Miss
LOVELACE
.
As
half
resign'd
,
in
Clayton's
green
retreats
,
Once
more
I
trod
the
Muse's
sacred
seats
,
Pleas'd
where
the
rose
its
purple
bloom
display'd
,
And
calm'd
where
poplars
spread
their
awful
shade
;
Just
as
my
heart
had
beat
itself
to
rest
,
Your
lines
arriv'd
:
the
lyre
I
snatch'd
in
haste
,
And
emulation
fir'd
my
panting
breast
.
Henceforth
,
I
cry'd
,
let
Glory
be
my
aim
,
For
Hertford
smiles
,
whose
very
smiles
are
Fame
.
The
pow'r
of
song
invok'd
,
my
voice
I
raise
,
And
all
my
soul
was
tun'd
to
Hertford's
praise
:
Whether
in
verse
melodiously
she
flows
,
Or
the
bold
image
paints
in
nervous
prose
;
Whether
once
more
the
sister
arts
she
joins
,
And
give
to
Reuben's
colours
,
Titian's
lines
;
Or
,
sweetly-studious
,
bends
the
thoughtful
brow
,
Or
smiles
indulgent
o'er
her
yet
lov'd
Rowe
;
Or
,
in
the
private
scene
,
retir'd
from
view
,
(
That
scene
so
oft
with
pleasure
mark'd
by
You
)
Still
as
she
came
,
my
voice
grew
faint
with
fear
,
So
graceful
She
,
so
amiably
severe
.
What
could
I
more
?
—
Adieu
ye
tuneful
throng
!
Farewel
the
sounding
lyre
,
and
raptur'd
song
!
Presumptuous
notes
!
whene'er
my
voice
I
raise
,
If
nought
the
Muse
will
dicate
but
her
praise
;
Vain
is
the
song
,
too
delicate
her
ear
,
And
these
the
very
sounds
she
will
not
hear
.