To Grace, Countess of Aboyne,

ON HER MARRIAGE-DAY .

I N martial fields the hero toils,
?And wades throw blood to purchase fame;
O'er dreadful waves, from distant soils,
?The merchant brings his treasures hame.
But fame and wealth no joys bestow,
?If plac'd alane the cyphers stand;
'Tis to the figure Love they owe
?The real joys that they command.
Blest he who love and beauty gains,
?Gains what contesting kings might claim,
Might bring brave armies to the plains,
?And loudly swell the blast of fame.
How happy then is young Aboyne!
?Of how much heav'n is he possest!
How much the care of pow'rs divine,
?Who lies in lovely Lockhart's breast!
Gazing in raptures on thy charms,
?Thy sparkling beauty, shape, and youth,
He grasps all softness in his arms,
?And sips the nectar from thy mouth.
If sympathetic likeness crave
?Indulgent parents to be kind,
Each pow'r shall guard the charm they gave,
?Venus thy face, Pallas thy mind.
O muse! we could—but stay thy flight;
?The field is sacred as 'tis sweet:
Who dares to paint the ardent night,
?When ravish'd youth and beauty meet?
Here we must draw a veil between,
?And shade those joys too dazzling clear,
By ev'ry eye not to be seen,
?Not to be heard by ev'ry ear.
Still in her smiles, ye Cupids, play;
?Still in her eyes your revels keep;
Her pleasure be your care by day,
?And whisper sweetness in her sleep.
Be banish'd each ill-natur'd care,
?Base offspring of fantastic spleen;
Of access here you must despair,
?Her breast for you is too serene.
May guardian angels hover round
?Thy head, and ward aff all annoy,
Be all thy days with raptures crown'd,
?And all thy nights be blest with joy.