To
Miss
Moor
,
On
her
FIRE-SCREEN
.
When
gloomy
Winter's
clad
in
Snow
,
Without
one
chearful
Shade
of
Green
;
When
one
blank
View
is
all
the
Shew
,
And
not
a
Leaf
or
Flower
seen
;
When
now
the
shiv'ring
feather'd
Throng
To
distant
warmer
Regions
fly
,
Or
wanting
Food
,
or
chill'd
with
Frost
,
Or
by
the
fatal
Powder
die
:
You
,
my
young
fair
one
,
of
your
own
A
new
Creation
can
provide
:
Your
Flow'rs
gay
blooming
as
in
May
,
Your
Trees
the
sharpest
Frost
abide
.
The
Flow'rs
ne'er
fade
,
nor
drop
the
Fruits
,
Nor
fades
the
Verdure
of
the
Fields
;
All
the
gay
Seasons
in
one
Scene
,
The
ever-pleasing
Prospect
yields
.
'Tis
true
,
the
Music
of
the
Birds
,
Escapes
your
Art
,
nor
strikes
your
Ear
.
But
see
them
pearching
on
the
Trees
,
As
if
delighted
to
be
here
.
Your
tender
Mind's
a
fertile
Soil
;
May
all
the
Graces
flourish
there
!
May
Modesty
protect
the
Whole
,
And
,
as
your
Face
,
your
Name
be
fair
!