Addressed To Miss ----, On Reading The Prayer For Indifference, An Ode, By Mrs. Greville.

And dwells there in a female heart,     By bounteous Heaven designd,     The choicest raptures to impart,     To feel the most refined     Dwells there a wish in such a breast     Its nature to forego,     To smother in ignoble rest     At once both bliss and woe!     Far be the thought, and far the strain,     Which breathes the low desire,     How sweet soeer the verse complain,     Though Phbus string the lyre.     Come, then, fair maid (in nature wise),     Who, knowing them, can tell     From generous sympathy what joys     The glowing bosom swell:     In justice to the various powers     Of pleasing, which you share,     Join me, amid your silent hours,     To form the better prayer.     With lenient balm may Oberon hence     To fairy-land be driven,     With every herb that blunts the sense     Mankind received from heaven.     Oh! if my sovereign Author please,     Far be it from my fate     To live unblest in torpid ease,     And slumber on in state;     Each tender tie of life defied,     Whence social pleasures spring,     Unmoved with all the world beside,     A solitary thing     Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,     Thus braves the whirling blast,     Eternal winter doomd to know,     No genial spring to taste.     In vain warm suns their influence shed,     The zephyrs sport in vain,     He rears unchanged his barren head,     Whilst beauty decks the plain.     What though in scaly armour dressd,     Indifference may repel     The shafts of woein such a breast     No joy can ever dwell.     Tis woven in the worlds great plan,     And fixd by Heavens decree,     That all the true delights of man     Should spring from sympathy.     Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws     Of nature we retain,     Our self-approving bosom draws     A pleasure from its pain.     Thus grief itself has comforts dear     The sordid never know;     And ecstacy attends the tear     When virtue bids it flow.     For, when it streams from that pure source,     No bribes the heart can win     To check, or alter from its course,     The luxury within.     Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,     Who, if from labour eased,     Extend no care beyond themselves,     Unpleasing and unpleased.     Let no low thought suggest the prayer,     Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,     Long as I draw ethereal air,     Sweet Sensibility!     Whereer the heavenly nymph is seen,     With lustre-beaming eye,     A train, attendant on their queen,     (Her rosy chorus) fly;     The jocund loves in Hymens band,     With torches ever bright,     And generous friendship, hand in hand     With pitys watry sight.     The gentler virtues too are joind     In youth immortal warm;     The soft relations, which, combined,     Give life her every charm.     The arts come smiling in the close,     And lend celestial fire;     The marble breathes, the canvas glows,     The muses sweep the lyre.     Still may my melting bosom cleave     To sufferings not my own,     And still the sigh responsive heave     Whereer is heard a groan.     So pity shall take virtues part,     Her natural ally,     And fashioning my softend heart,     Prepare it for the sky.     This artless vow may heaven receive,     And you, fond maid, approve:     So may your guiding angel give     Whateer you wish or love!     So may the rosy-fingerd hours     Lead on the various year,     And every joy, which now is yours,     Extend a larger sphere!     And suns to come, as round they wheel,     Your golden moments bless     With all a tender heart can feel,     Or lively fancy guess!