ONCE more the swift wheels of old Time’s rapid chariot
Have hastily roll’d months and seasons away;
Once more we take leave of the gloom of December,
And hail brighter prospects returning to day.
Farewell to the year that is closed, for ever,
Like a dream, or a vision of fancy ’tis o’er:
Adieu to its toils, to its cares, and its pleasures;
They’ll return to perplex or delight us no more.
But the year which is gone had one favourite pleasure,
A charm of its own, that endear’d it to me;
A source of amusement the world may call folly-
To me it was pleasure, since valued by thee.
And shall I, my dearest Eliza, relinquish
A source of enjoyment so pure and refin’d;
If I bid a reluctant adieu to the Muses,
Where shall I such pleasing society find?
Yet Prudence her maxims is ever repeating-
” That the vot’ries of song are pursuing a shade;
” A phantom, whose charms are delusive and fleeting,
” As a rainbow, whose brilliance a moment will fade.
” The lover, who for some insensible fair one
” Still sighs, though she heed not, nor pity his pain;
” If at length she relent, and with kindness reward him,
” Though for years he had sigh’d, yet it was not in vain.
” And those who solicit the gifts of dame Fortune,
” Where blindfold she scatters her favours around,
” Are rewarded, if after long constant attenda nce
” She grant them a share of a ten-thousand pound.
” But the sons of Thalia what madness possesses!
” For year after year to write nonsense in rhyme,
” Without any hope of advantage or profit,
” To repay them for waste of their paper and time.”
Thus Prudence, her grave, sober lectures rehearses,
But in vain-those enjoyments I cannot resign,
While the ardour of fancy still glows in my bosom,
While the feelings of joy, love, and pity are mine.
When my heart is as cold as the rocks of the ocean,
When the reign of affection and friendship is o’er,
When fancy’s bright flame is extinguish’d for ever,
And the name of Eliza can charm me no more.
When the wonders of nature no longer delight me;
When its beauties no longer my lays can inspire;
Then will I forsake the lov’d haunts of the Muses,
And bid an eternal farewell to the lyre.
(Isabella Lickbarrow)
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