FOUR beggars at once! each imploring a poet,
If the muses inspire, on their persons to show it;
But the Helicon’s distant–and poor Peg is tir’d;
Or, in other words–your friend’s not inspir’d!
Yet, to please you, dear girls, I’ll endeavour to say
A something to each — in a mere friendly way.
Suppose, then, in form, your ages I take,
And begin with dear Sarah, for eldership’s sake:
Though not quite poetic the name which you bear,
May that breast ne’er be tortur’d by sorrow or care;
Yet do not suppose, in this varying life,
One lot is untinctur’d with sorrow or strife;
We all, my dear girl, must expect that some shade
Will o’ershadow our sun–like clouds o’er the glade.
But may you never meet with distresses severe;
Still an uncorrupt heart can have little to fear;
As the great God who form’d you will ever protect
That being who treateth his laws with respect.
Yet, Sarah, permit me in friendship to say,
We must do something more than simply obey;
We must, by exertion, endeavour and try
To make ourselves worthy a place in the sky .
Remember that steward whose talent was laid
Secure in a napkin , confin’d in a shade;
And conceal’d, as a miser would hoard up his store,
Instead of endeav’ring to make little more ,
Though the giver intended the girl should diffuse,
And nurture, like rain, or the soft morning dews.
Yet to take leave of metaphor, and speak the truth,
Each talent is giv’n for exertion in youth;
As after that period, who e’er can say,
I’ll devote to improvement the whole of a day?
Then now, my dear girl, is the time to attend
To those precepts which fall from the lips of a friend.
Let zeal for improvement attention inspire;
Ne’er suffer a junior in years to be higher
On the ladder of knowledge,–or yield them the prize
Which those may obtain, who try to be wise.
Yet never permit emulation to bring
A sensation like envy –for its pointed sting
Will poison those qualities which all admire,
Instead of exciting an ardent desire
To excel in those virtues which adorn our race;
In fact, ’tis a passion that teems with disgrace,
And one, which I trust you never will feel,
And therefore I need not its dangers reveal;
For your heart is so tender, so good, and so kind,
That envy can never take root in your mind.
And now, my dear Emma, to you I must speak,
Though my poetic rays, I confess, are so weak
They scarcely would light a poor author to bed,
If perch’d in an attic , or down in a shed .
Yet, nevertheless, as in verse I must write,
For such is the order you gave me to-night,
Your motto, dear Emma, is frolic and fun ,
Yet I trust that no mischievous tricks have been done;
For frolic , unless by prudence confin’d,
May lead to exploits which degrade the pure mind;
But your frolic and fun , I’m persuaded, my dear,
Will never excite in my bosom a fear;
And ne’er will you smile, if misfortune appears,
But soften its pangs with sweet sympathy’s tears.
Then smile away, Emma–you’ll ne’er hear me say,
I wish to behold you less cheerful and gay.
Yet amidst all the innocent pleasures of youth,
Let sober reflection inspire love of truth;
And may Virtue’s lov’d image, transcendently mild,
Take up its abode in the breast of a child!
For Nature, dear Emma, bestow’d at your birth,
A gift far more precious than Golcondo’s earth;
Or rather those treasures its bowels contains;
I mean a good stock of intelligent brains!
And you, my dear Frances, are equally blest;
For never were two little birds in a nest
More completely alike–in point of the store
Of brains you possess–as I’ve told you before;
Where much has been giv’n, there much is requir’d;
And much , my dear Frances, from you is desir’d,
Both by parents, and friends;–then for those friends’ sake,
A pleasure in mental improvement pray take.
The mere charm of person, without worth of mind,
May please for a moment; –yet ah! you will find
From virtue alone we taste true delight,
‘Tis the soul’s radiant lamp–which ever burns bright;
And from it a rich source of pleasure will spring,
More sweet than the fragrance of blossoms in spring.
Then let me implore you to cherish with care
Those virtues which add so much grace to the fair;
Let mildness and sweetness be both so combin’d
That those prone to censure may no failing find;
And may even cynics, dear Frances, declare,
The child whom I love–is as good as she’s fair .
Though last, my dear George, not the least in affection;
May your mind be the seat both of worth and perfection!
And as time circles round, may each virtue appear
More transcendently bright than it was the last year!
May those volatile spirits, with which you are bless’d,
Long fix their abode in that innocent breast!
Yet never allow them to escape those bounds
Which reason prescribes–and true feeling grounds,
Or brings into practice–for spirits, my dear,
Should be always constrain’d by humanity’s sphere;
I mean that you never, by action or word,
Should be guilty of any thing which is absurd;
And ne’er thoughtlessly ridicule failings in others,
For remember, my love, we are sisters and brothers;
The same father made us,–the same God protects,
And ’tis virtue alone, –which that father respects!
But now, my dear girls, permit me to say,
May you all long remain just as guileless and gay
As you are at this moment,–for trust me, that art
Is a corrosive passion–which cankers the heart;
In youth ’tis obnoxious–in age ’tis replete
With those pangs its possessor deserveth to meet;
It lives unrespected,–neglected it dies,
And can never obtain an abode in the skies;
There–harmony, love, and tenderness greet,
And there–may our spirits, my dearest girls, meet!
(Mary Hopkins Pilkington)
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