Дженет Литтл (Janet Little)

To a Lady, a Patroness of the Muses, on Her Recovery from Sickness

While sickness, madam, on your vitals prey’d,
The sympathetic sisters shar’d your pain:
I mark’d them then in sable weeds array’d,
In concert sad assume the plaintive strain.

From Elly’s[1] Land was heard the harp of wo;
A shepherd, once the blithest of the throng,
Did mirth inspiring, sportive notes forego,
And steep’d in tears the melancholy song.

From Irvine’s verdant banks, a doleful lay
Re-echo’d through the groves and distant dale;
Each vocal throat was fill’d with dire dismay,
And heart-felt sighs proclaim’d th’ unwelcome tale.

Quick and unstable are the turns of Fate;
’Twixt well and wo are thin partitions rear’d:
I mark’d the drooping choir with hearts elate,
Exulting o’er the ills so lately fear’d.

When brooding on the verge of deep despair,
A gladd’ning voice did through the groves resound;
Loud acclamations fill’d the ambient air,
And joy and pleasure triumph’d all around.

Health, blooming goddess, re-assum’d her sway,
And did the tender, captive frame release;
All seem’d intent the tidings to convey,
In notes more grateful than the whisp’ring breeze.

Some greet a patroness, all hail a friend,
Whose bosom feels seraphic virtues glow;
Nor further, madam, do your smiles extend;
Vice dreads your frown, and shuns you as a foe.

Long may you live admir’d by all, and lov’d,
The honour of a long illustrious race;
Your worth innate, by Envy’s self approv’d,
Which time or sickness never can efface.


[1] The Residence of the celebrated Poet, 
    Robert Burns.

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