To Mrs. M—S. Ann Yearsley (née Cromartie) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. N22108 Yearsley, Ann, 1753-1806. Poems, on several occasions. By Ann Yearsley, a milkwoman of Bristol [poems only]. The second edition. London printed for T. Cadell, in the Strand 1785 pp. 61-64. xxxii, 127p.

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To Mrs. M—S "[P]ossibly Caroline Morris of Bloomsbury Square, one of the subscribers to the volume". (Andrews et al. [2014], vol. 1, 370.) . Pardon , much honour'd Fair ! this humble lay , Nor scorn the tribute Gratitude may pay ; No rapturous Muse e'er warm'd my rustic breast , Nor dare I own the bright exalted guest : Far flies the Muse where radiant Science reigns , Inspires the soul , and elevates her strains ; Then rapture , melody , and sense conspire , And Phoebus fiercely twangs the sprightly lyre ; Far let her fly — if Gratitude be mine , Her voice shall match the whole harmonious Nine ; The full-fraught heart , with fiercer ardors rise , And pierce , resistless , thro' yon azure skies ; Nor pauses short of the Celestial Throne , But seeks the ear she's certain is her own ; There loudly sounds — a voice by Mercy given , Whilst echoes vibrate thro' the vaults of Heaven , There sounds your name , while list'ning Angels bend The well-tun'd harp , and to the tale attend . In that great day when mingled nations stand — Some wish , some dread Jehovah's last command , Shall not my little ones , with ardour raise Your plaudit high , who prop their infant days ; Whose voice has call'd them from the depths of woe , Suppress'd the sigh , forbad the tear to flow ? Low on the earth , by anguish crush'd , I lay — I mourn'd the night , nor hail'd the coming day , When bright Aurora tipp'd the Eastern skies , Hearts bless'd with plenty bade the Goddess rise ; Not so with me — to Misery resign'd , On her cold lap my wretched head reclin'd ; Around , grim horrors take their ghastly stand , And Famine executes her dire command , Nor once relents ; — the tear reluctant flows , Not for my own , but for my infants' woes : The Stoic's sullen gloom had fill'd my soul , Forbad the sigh , and check'd the tears that roll ; Ev'n smiling Hope , soft soother of the mind , Like Milton's Guardian Angel , had resign'd Her charge as lost ; homeward to Heaven she flies , And grim Despair , and all her furies rise ; O , dismal Fiend ! to thee I give the world , From all its joys , and shadowy visions hurl'd ; The contest o'er , eternal worlds are mine , Where ransom'd spirits taste repose divine .