Go, little book, let Stella's eyes On thy instructive pages beam;— And, veiling truth in fiction's guise, Teach her to love the poet's dream: Bid her confess its magic power, When Genius dares, in fancy's stolen hour, To virtue dedicate the moral theme.
Be thou her guide, her footsteps lead, Where Inspiration's blooming flowers Enamel Learning's cultur'd mead, Or deck Imagination's bowers; Where never-failing springs supply Their streams of life, and where an April sky Smiles, like the tender Muse, thro' rainbow showers.
Do thou select for Stella's breast The flowers that glow with brightest hues; Her gentle heart, with feeling blest, Shall wash their leaves in Pity's dews. Oh! blossoms, cull'd from gardens fair, Where lyres, unseen, salute the murmuring air, You'll find in Stella's breast another muse!
And point out Folly's gaudy weeds, That hail with noxious breath the morn; And Dulness, too, whose poppy seeds O'er Cultivation's fields are borne;— The varnish'd fruit that tempts the eye, But mocks the touch — oh! hollow Flattery! And Envy's nightshade fenc'd by Satire's thorn.
And now explore the cypress grove, Where Sorrow wakes, with mournful strings, The verse that tells of faithful love, And feeds the hopeless flame it sings: As Stella's eyes the tear reveal, Teach her to pity, and she'll learn to feel;— —So Music mounts to sympathetic spring.
