To Mrs. V—N Elizabeth Vaughan, wife of the financier Richard Vaughan who rescued the destitute Yearsley family in 1784. . Sequester'd from the busy whirl of man , Permit soft Fancy in the vale to stray ; In dark obscurity my life began , Where Science scorn'd to cheer the dreary way . Bright sentiment , if unimprov'd , must die , And great ideas , unassisted , fall ; On Learning's wing we pierce th'empyreal sky ; But Nature's untaught efforts are but small . Pardon , bright fair ! my hapless fate deplore , Nor scorn the grateful , tho' unletter'd line ; The Eastern slave's permitted to adore , When in bright Sol he sees a Godhead shine . Heaven spurns him not , but spares the untaught mind , Who ne'er religion's nobler truths has prov'd ; Thus , in thy bosom , where each virtue's join'd , Let Pity plead where Reason can't approve . To cheer the gloom of solitude's lone hour , In this sad bosom desert made by woe , May busy memory's ever pleasing power , In grateful vision still your form bestow . Belov'd idea , on my heart imprest , Which time or anguish never shall efface , Till Death shall sternly bid its motion rest , And in its stead his barbed dart shall place . Not valued less , with gratitude refin'd , Shall my warm heart your honour'd partner share ; With joy I'll own how great , how good his mind , And hail each heavenly virtue planted there . O ! had there stepp'd before offended Heaven , But ten so perfect for a guilty race , The dread , tremendous word had ne'er been given , Nor streaming fires have purg'd the blasted place . How different those who waste the thoughtless hour , And , jocund , dance to Folly's trifling lay ; Death , mask'd , oft shares the ball and festive bower , And beckons , unawares , the soul away . Aghast she views the dark and dismal vale , Where ghosts of long-departed Pleasures roam ; Sad comforts ! where their poor expedients fail , Say , what pleas'd guide shall waft the trembler home ? O , Misery ! readier than the pitying eye Of Heaven , why do thy terrors round me wait ? Avaunt ! my spirits mount with extacy , For V—'s bright virtues speak a happier fate . Then may not I , with humblest hope aspire , At distance follow where they boldly stray ? Ah , no ! I want that strong , celestial fire , Which , eagle-like , dares the Meridian ray . Capacious virtues fill th'extensive mind , That mind which this low world could ne'er contain ; O'er peopled orbs it wanders unconfin'd ; Yet sounds of woe oft lure it back again : And fix'd , like Niobe , o'er the rueful scene Of human mis'ry the mild spirit stands ; No more the bosom boasts a state serene , But melts , distress'd by Pity's soft commands . Dissolv'd in woe , it scorns the gay parade Of dazzling pride , and with the mourner mourns ; Flies with pale Mis'ry to the dreary shade , And brings it back by soft , yet swift returns . Rais'd as I am to sweet domestic joy By bounteous V—n , will she the line refuse ? You who , like Heaven , wou'd save and not destroy , Say , will you scorn the poor unpolish'd Muse ? Oft when the frugal meal salutes my eyes , Big rapture heaves my late desponding breast ; I see your form in every blessing rise , It smiles content , and bids my sorrows rest . Hope , lovely phantom ! is , and shall be mine , She hovers round , amidst this waste of woe ; Points my once cheerless soul to views sublime , From Earth's sad scene , and Mis'ry's wreck below . Pour down , great God ! thy choicest blessings here , Such virtues merit thy peculiar love ; O ! make their beauteous progeny thy care , And lift them late to all thy joys above !