To Mr. Pratt

As, on some festive day, the village maid,In simple robe, with neatest art array'd,Her modest beauty careful to adorn,Seeks the fair flow'rs that deck the dewy mom;Nor needs the diamonds of the courtly fair,Whilst native gems entwine her flowing hair:So, Bard of "Sympathy!" thy artless layO'er the charm'd heart still bears resistless sway;Whether Britannia's "Poor," with Goldsmith's lyre,Thou sing'st, in strains that breathe celestial fire;Or, lead'st us through her cities and her vales,Her hills, her woods, her uplands, and her dales;Or, while with fancied ills thy bosom glows,Thou tell'st the tale of hapless Emma's woes;The pow'rful fictions make us truly feel,And trickling tears our sympathy reveal.