EPISTLE FROM MRS. YONGE TO HER HUSBAND by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

My letters to my dear should fly,
More swift than Arrows from the sky,
Should every word with transport grace,
And ev'ry line inspire the face,
And yet my flowing numbers fail,
And yet my pen's too slow and stale,
To trace the conquests of your eyes,
Or half the slave that in me lies;
For you, all objects I forsake,
And nothing see, and nothing speak,
But you I view, and you I hear,
And nothing feel but what you share.
Pleasures by thee unwitness'd fade,
And joy in ev'ry sound is made;
The birds that warble in my bow'r,
Can give delight no more an hour,
Unless with thee I share the bliss,
And in thy arms find sweeter ease,
Than from their softest music flows,
Or fragrant blooms that scent the rose.
What are the mountains in my sight?
The rocks and caves but lone delight,
If you don't dwell upon their brow,
And gild their ruggedness with you.
What are the valleys, groves, or fields,
Where Venus never trod, and yields
No joy but what the huntsman feels,
Compar'd with the fair ev'ning view,
That shows my bright Antenor too?
What are the brooks or mossy fountains?
The falling waters or the mountains,
That give the reeling senses cool,
To the delightful silver pool,
Where to my hopes my shepherd's true,
And pays my love with passion due?
Thou art the mountain of delight,
The vale, the brook, the fountain bright;
I live upon thy shining face,
And in thy eyes find all my peace,
My joys in thy kind arms I find,
And thou hast chear'd my love-sick mind.
So, though my pen's too slow and stale,
I beg the subject may prevail;
And all the Gods and Muses join,
To aid and sanctify the line,
Till all the world with wonder knows,
How much, how deep thy image glows,
In her, who ventures to aspire,
To be, what she can ne'er desire
More blest than when her heart can prove,
Its best, its fullness of its love.

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