The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/To the same (1)

Dear Sir, when late in town you chose To correspond no more in prose, My viscious muse---(but 'tis in vain Of her abuses to complain)--- Neglects to aid, as I expected, And so I must be self-directed.

You've broke th' agreement, Sir, I find; (Excuse me, I must speak my mind) It seems, in your poetic fit, You mind not jingling, when there's wit; And so to write like Donne you chose, Whose prose was verse, and verse was prose: From common tracts of rhyming stray, And versify another way. Indeed it suits, I must aver, A genius to be singular.

On F---r kept in durance vile, Did once more erring fortune smile: Again he would extend his ray, And shine his riches all away. Birch said, (and what he said I sing) 'A shilling is a serious thing;' But like Icarus, F---r springs, Where suns dissolv'd his waxen wings: No more the wings his weight sustain, He plunges headlong in the main: The shades of death steal o'er his eyes; And to black Styx the spirit flies.

Life is a grand vicissitude Of pain and health, of ill and good: Your goose now mourns a murder'd mate, (Attend while I the fact relate) He chanc'd upon a cloudless morn, To wander in our neighbour's corn; Perhaps he thought all lands were free, And none had private property;

Or sure he ne'er had trod the plain, And pick'd, like Eve, forbidden grain: Careless he fed, in graceful ease And sweet simplicity of geese. Ill-fated bird! he there was kill'd By man, the tyrant of the field.

His widow's wing, Oh dire relation! Next underwent sad amputation: Weep not, dear Sir, at this abuse; She bears it like a patient goose: I fear the widow is a prude, Or matters sooner would conclude; Or else you have a coward heart, And fear to act the suitor's part. Of all the things beneath the sun, you know, Faint heart fair lady never won. Adieu.