To Clarissa

Sweet maid, who culturest in thy vernal prime
Those plants that flourish ’mid the frosts of time,
Long, with assiduous care, proceed to store
A portion rich of wisdom’s varied lore,
Borne from thy native England’s classic fane,
Th’ historian’s record and the poet’s strain;
The moral pages, tracing to their source
Each subtle passion on its erring course,
And those blest leaves, which can their force controul,
The sacred tome, that anchor of the soul!
Thus when no more exterior blossoms rise,
Nor love’s gay torch shall kindle from those eyes,
The fruits of knowledge, and its lights, will shame
The fading florets, and th’ uncertain flame;
Attention, tenderness, respect ensure,
Which given to merit, shall thro’ life endure.