To Mrs. King, On Her Kind Present To The Author, A Patchwork Counterpane Of Her Own Making.

The bard, if eer he feel at all,     Must sure be quickend by a call     Both on his heart and head,     To pay with tuneful thanks the care     And kindness of a lady fair,     Who deigns to deck his bed.     A bed like this, in ancient time,     On Idas barren top sublime     (As Homers epic shows),     Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,     Without the aid of sun or showers,     For Jove and Juno rose.     Less beautiful, however gay,     Is that which in the scorching day     Receives the weary swain,     Who, laying his long scythe aside,     Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,     Till roused to toil again.     What labours of the loom I see!     Looms numberless have groand for me!     Should every maiden come     To scramble for the patch that bears     The impress of the robe she wears,     The bell would toll for some.     And oh, what havoc would ensue!     This bright display of every hue     All in a moment fled!     As if a storm should strip the bowers     Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers     Each pocketing a shred.     Thanks then to every gentle fair     Who will not come to peck me bare     As bird of borrowd feather,     And thanks to one above them all,     The gentle fair of Pertenhall,     Who put the whole together.