To Joanna Baillie

Long ere my pulse with nascent life had beat,
The ripe spring of thy early Paradise
With many a flower, and fruit, and hallow'd spice,
Was fair to fancy and to feeling sweet.
Time, that is aye reproach'd to be so fleet.
Because dear follies vanish in a trice,
Shall now be clean absolved by judgment nice.
Since his good speed made thee so soon complete.
But less I praise the bounty of old Time,
Lady revered, our Island's Tragic Queen,
For all achievements of thy hope and prime.
Than for the beauty of thine age serene.
That yet delights to weave the moral rhyme.
Nor fears what is, should dim what thou hast been.