Unwin, I should but ill repayThe kindness of a friend,Whose worth deserves as warm a layAs ever friendship penn'd,Thy name omitted in a pageThat would reclaim a vicious age.A union form'd, as mine with thee,Not rashly, or in sport,May be as fervent in degreeAnd faithful in its sort,And may as rich in comfort prove,As that of true fraternal love.The bud inserted in the rind,The bud of peach or rose,Adorns, though differing in its kind,The stock whereon it grows,With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,As if produced by nature there.Not rich, I render what I may,I seize thy name in haste,And place it in this first essay,Lest this should prove the last.'Tis where it should be—in a planThat holds in view the good of man.The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,Should be the poet's heart;Affection lights a brighter flameThan ever blazed by art.No muses on these lines attend,I sink the poet in the friend.
Unwin, I should but ill repayThe kindness of a friend,Whose worth deserves as warm a layAs ever friendship penn'd,Thy name omitted in a pageThat would reclaim a vicious age.
A union form'd, as mine with thee,Not rashly, or in sport,May be as fervent in degreeAnd faithful in its sort,And may as rich in comfort prove,As that of true fraternal love.
The bud inserted in the rind,The bud of peach or rose,Adorns, though differing in its kind,The stock whereon it grows,With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,As if produced by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,I seize thy name in haste,And place it in this first essay,Lest this should prove the last.'Tis where it should be—in a planThat holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,Should be the poet's heart;Affection lights a brighter flameThan ever blazed by art.No muses on these lines attend,I sink the poet in the friend.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
The swallows in their torpid stateCompose their useless wing,And bees in hives as idly waitThe call of early Spring.The keenest frost that binds the stream,The wildest wind that blows,Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,Secure of their repose.But man, all feeling and awake,The gloomy scene surveys;With present ills his heart must ache,And pant for brighter days.Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,Bids me and Mary mourn;But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,And whispers your return.Then April, with her sister May,Shall chase him from the bowers,And weave fresh garlands every day,To crown the smiling hours.And if a tear that speaks regretOf happier times, appear,A glimpse of joy, that we have met,Shall shine, and dry the tear.
The swallows in their torpid stateCompose their useless wing,And bees in hives as idly waitThe call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,The wildest wind that blows,Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,The gloomy scene surveys;With present ills his heart must ache,And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,Bids me and Mary mourn;But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,Shall chase him from the bowers,And weave fresh garlands every day,To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear that speaks regretOf happier times, appear,A glimpse of joy, that we have met,Shall shine, and dry the tear.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)
She came—she is gone—we have met—And meet perhaps never again;The sun of that moment is set,And seems to have risen in vain.Catharina has fled like a dream—(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)But has left a regret and esteemThat will not so suddenly pass.The last evening ramble we made,Catharina, Maria, and I,Our progress was often delay'dBy the nightingale warbling nigh.We paused under many a tree,And much she was charm'd with a tone,Less sweet to Maria and me,Who so lately had witnessed her own.My numbers that day she had sung,And gave them a grace so divine,As only her musical tongueCould infuse into numbers of mine.The longer I heard, I esteem'dThe work of my fancy the more,And e'en to myself never seem'dSo tuneful a poet before.Though the pleasures of London exceedIn number the days of the year,Catharina, did nothing impede,Would feel herself happier here;For the close-woven arches of limesOn the banks of our river, I know,Are sweeter to her many timesThan aught that the city can show.So it is when the mind is enduedWith a well-judging taste from above,Then, whether embellish'd or rude,'Tis nature alone that we love.The achievements of art may amuse,May even our wonder excite;But groves, hills, and valleys diffuseA lasting, a sacred delight.Since then in the rural recessCatharina alone can rejoice,May it still be her lot to possessThe scene of her sensible choice!To inhabit a mansion remoteFrom the clatter of street-pacing steeds,And by Philomel's annual noteTo measure the life that she leads.With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,To wing all her moments at home;And with scenes that new rapture inspire,As oft as it suits her to roam;She will have just the life she prefers,With little to hope or to fear,And ours would be pleasant as hers,Might we view her enjoying it here.
She came—she is gone—we have met—And meet perhaps never again;The sun of that moment is set,And seems to have risen in vain.Catharina has fled like a dream—(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)But has left a regret and esteemThat will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,Catharina, Maria, and I,Our progress was often delay'dBy the nightingale warbling nigh.We paused under many a tree,And much she was charm'd with a tone,Less sweet to Maria and me,Who so lately had witnessed her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,And gave them a grace so divine,As only her musical tongueCould infuse into numbers of mine.The longer I heard, I esteem'dThe work of my fancy the more,And e'en to myself never seem'dSo tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceedIn number the days of the year,Catharina, did nothing impede,Would feel herself happier here;For the close-woven arches of limesOn the banks of our river, I know,Are sweeter to her many timesThan aught that the city can show.
So it is when the mind is enduedWith a well-judging taste from above,Then, whether embellish'd or rude,'Tis nature alone that we love.The achievements of art may amuse,May even our wonder excite;But groves, hills, and valleys diffuseA lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recessCatharina alone can rejoice,May it still be her lot to possessThe scene of her sensible choice!To inhabit a mansion remoteFrom the clatter of street-pacing steeds,And by Philomel's annual noteTo measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,To wing all her moments at home;And with scenes that new rapture inspire,As oft as it suits her to roam;She will have just the life she prefers,With little to hope or to fear,And ours would be pleasant as hers,Might we view her enjoying it here.
A TALE.
A hermit, (or if 'chance you holdThat title now too trite and old,)A man, once young, who lived retiredAs hermit could have well desired,His hours of study closed at last,And finish'd his concise repast,Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book,Within its customary nook,And, staff in hand, set forth to shareThe sober cordial of sweet air,Like Isaac, with a mind appliedTo serious thought at evening-tide.Autumnal rains had made it chill,And from the trees, that fringed his hill,Shades slanting at the close of day,Chill'd more his else delightful way.Distant a little mile he spiedA western bank's still sunny side,And right toward the favour'd placeProceeding with his nimblest pace,In hope to bask a little yet,Just reach'd it when the sun was set.Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!Learns something from whate'er occurs—And hence, he said, my mind computesThe real worth of man's pursuits.His object chosen, wealth or fame,Or other sublunary game,Imagination to his viewPresents it deck'd with every hue,That can seduce him not to spareHis powers of best exertion there,But youth, health, vigour to expendOn so desirable an end.Ere long approach life's evening shadesThe glow that fancy gave it fades;And, earn'd too late, it wants the graceThat first engaged him in the chase.True, answer'd an angelic guide,Attendant at the senior's side—But whether all the time it cost,To urge the fruitless chase be lost,Must be decided by the worthOf that which call'd his ardour forth.Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,Must cause him shame or discontent;A vicious object still is worse,Successful there, he wins a curse;But he, whom e'en in life's last stageEndeavours laudable engage,Is paid at least in peace of mind,And sense of having well design'd;And if, ere he attain his end,His sun precipitate descend,A brighter prize than that he meantShall recompense his mere intent.No virtuous wish can bear a dateEither too early or too late.
A hermit, (or if 'chance you holdThat title now too trite and old,)A man, once young, who lived retiredAs hermit could have well desired,His hours of study closed at last,And finish'd his concise repast,Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book,Within its customary nook,And, staff in hand, set forth to shareThe sober cordial of sweet air,Like Isaac, with a mind appliedTo serious thought at evening-tide.Autumnal rains had made it chill,And from the trees, that fringed his hill,Shades slanting at the close of day,Chill'd more his else delightful way.Distant a little mile he spiedA western bank's still sunny side,And right toward the favour'd placeProceeding with his nimblest pace,In hope to bask a little yet,Just reach'd it when the sun was set.Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!Learns something from whate'er occurs—And hence, he said, my mind computesThe real worth of man's pursuits.His object chosen, wealth or fame,Or other sublunary game,Imagination to his viewPresents it deck'd with every hue,That can seduce him not to spareHis powers of best exertion there,But youth, health, vigour to expendOn so desirable an end.Ere long approach life's evening shadesThe glow that fancy gave it fades;And, earn'd too late, it wants the graceThat first engaged him in the chase.True, answer'd an angelic guide,Attendant at the senior's side—But whether all the time it cost,To urge the fruitless chase be lost,Must be decided by the worthOf that which call'd his ardour forth.Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,Must cause him shame or discontent;A vicious object still is worse,Successful there, he wins a curse;But he, whom e'en in life's last stageEndeavours laudable engage,Is paid at least in peace of mind,And sense of having well design'd;And if, ere he attain his end,His sun precipitate descend,A brighter prize than that he meantShall recompense his mere intent.No virtuous wish can bear a dateEither too early or too late.
The greenhouse is my summer seat;My shrubs displaced from that retreatEnjoy'd the open air;Two goldfinches, whose sprightly songHad been their mutual solace long,Lived happy prisoners there.They sang as blithe as finches sing,That flutter loose on golden wing,And frolic where they list;Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,But that delight they never knew,And therefore never miss'd.But nature works in every breast,With force not easily suppress'd;And Dick felt some desires,That, after many an effort vain,Instructed him at length to gainA pass between his wires.The open windows seem'd to inviteThe freeman to a farewell flight;But Tom was still confined;And Dick, although his way was clear,Was much too generous and sincereTo leave his friend behind.So settling on his cage, by play,And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,You must not live alone—Nor would he quit that chosen standTill I, with slow and cautious hand,Return'd him to his own.O ye, who never taste the joysOf Friendship, satisfied with noise,Fandango, ball, and rout!Blush when I tell you how a birdA prison with a friend preferr'dTo liberty without.
The greenhouse is my summer seat;My shrubs displaced from that retreatEnjoy'd the open air;Two goldfinches, whose sprightly songHad been their mutual solace long,Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing,That flutter loose on golden wing,And frolic where they list;Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,But that delight they never knew,And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in every breast,With force not easily suppress'd;And Dick felt some desires,That, after many an effort vain,Instructed him at length to gainA pass between his wires.
The open windows seem'd to inviteThe freeman to a farewell flight;But Tom was still confined;And Dick, although his way was clear,Was much too generous and sincereTo leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,You must not live alone—Nor would he quit that chosen standTill I, with slow and cautious hand,Return'd him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joysOf Friendship, satisfied with noise,Fandango, ball, and rout!Blush when I tell you how a birdA prison with a friend preferr'dTo liberty without.
There is a field, through which I often pass,Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,That he may follow them through brake and brier,Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;And where the land slopes to its watery bournWide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,And horrid brambles intertwine below;A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time,For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed;Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray,With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throatsWith a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes,For which, alas! my destiny severe,Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.The sun, accomplishing his early march,His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,When, exercise and air my only aim,And heedless whither, to that field I came,Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy houndTold hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clangAll Kilwick[824]and all Dinglederry[824]rang.Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'dThe herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd,To me their peace by kind contagion spread.But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,'Gan make his instrument of music speak,And from within the wood that crash was heard,Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed,All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;But recollecting, with a sudden thought,That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,They gathered close around the old pit's brink,And thought again—but knew not what to think.The man to solitude accustom'd long,Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;Not animals alone, but shrubs and treesHave speech for him, and understood with ease;After long drought, when rains abundant fall,He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,How glad they catch the largess of the skies;But, with precision nicer still, the mindHe scans of every locomotive kind;Birds of all feather, beasts of every name;That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;The looks and gestures of their griefs and fearsHave all articulation in his ears;He spells them true by intuition's light,And needs no glossary to set him right.This truth premised was needful as a text,To win due credence to what follows next.Awhile they mused; surveying every face,Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;Their periwigs of wool and fears combined,Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt,Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;Or academic tutors, teaching youths,Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;When thus a mutton statelier than the rest,A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd.Friends! we have lived too long. I never heardSounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd.Could I believe, that winds for ages pentIn earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,And from their prison-house below arise,With all these hideous howlings to the skies,I could be much composed, nor should appear,For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'dAll night, me resting quiet in the fold.Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,I could expound the melancholy tone;Should deem it by our old companion made,The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear?Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'dAnd fang'd with brass the demons are abroad;I hold it therefore wisest and most fitThat, life to save, we leap into the pit.Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.How! leap into the pit our life to save?To save our life leap all into the grave?For can we find it less? Contemplate firstThe depth how awful! falling there, we burst:Or should the brambles, interposed, our fallIn part abate, that happiness were small;For with a race like theirs no chance I seeOf peace or ease to creatures clad as we.Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,Or be it not, or be it whose it may,And rush those other sounds, that seem by tonguesOf demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,We have at least commodious standing here.Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blastFrom earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,For Reynard, close attended at his heelsBy panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse,Through mere good fortune, took a different course.The flock grew calm again, and I, the roadFollowing, that led me to my own abode,Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had foundSuch cause of terror in an empty sound,So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.
There is a field, through which I often pass,Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,That he may follow them through brake and brier,Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;And where the land slopes to its watery bournWide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,And horrid brambles intertwine below;A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time,For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed;Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray,With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throatsWith a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes,For which, alas! my destiny severe,Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.The sun, accomplishing his early march,His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,When, exercise and air my only aim,And heedless whither, to that field I came,Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy houndTold hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clangAll Kilwick[824]and all Dinglederry[824]rang.
Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'dThe herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd,To me their peace by kind contagion spread.But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,'Gan make his instrument of music speak,And from within the wood that crash was heard,Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed,All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;But recollecting, with a sudden thought,That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,They gathered close around the old pit's brink,And thought again—but knew not what to think.The man to solitude accustom'd long,Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;Not animals alone, but shrubs and treesHave speech for him, and understood with ease;After long drought, when rains abundant fall,He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,How glad they catch the largess of the skies;But, with precision nicer still, the mindHe scans of every locomotive kind;Birds of all feather, beasts of every name;That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;The looks and gestures of their griefs and fearsHave all articulation in his ears;He spells them true by intuition's light,And needs no glossary to set him right.This truth premised was needful as a text,To win due credence to what follows next.Awhile they mused; surveying every face,Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;Their periwigs of wool and fears combined,Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt,Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;Or academic tutors, teaching youths,Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;When thus a mutton statelier than the rest,A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd.Friends! we have lived too long. I never heardSounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd.Could I believe, that winds for ages pentIn earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,And from their prison-house below arise,With all these hideous howlings to the skies,I could be much composed, nor should appear,For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'dAll night, me resting quiet in the fold.Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,I could expound the melancholy tone;Should deem it by our old companion made,The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear?Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'dAnd fang'd with brass the demons are abroad;I hold it therefore wisest and most fitThat, life to save, we leap into the pit.Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.How! leap into the pit our life to save?To save our life leap all into the grave?For can we find it less? Contemplate firstThe depth how awful! falling there, we burst:Or should the brambles, interposed, our fallIn part abate, that happiness were small;For with a race like theirs no chance I seeOf peace or ease to creatures clad as we.Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,Or be it not, or be it whose it may,And rush those other sounds, that seem by tonguesOf demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,We have at least commodious standing here.Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blastFrom earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,For Reynard, close attended at his heelsBy panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse,Through mere good fortune, took a different course.The flock grew calm again, and I, the roadFollowing, that led me to my own abode,Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had foundSuch cause of terror in an empty sound,So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.
AN ODE.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods,Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow:Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.
Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow:Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.
There was a time when Ætna's silent fireSlept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire;When, conscious of no danger from below,She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.No thunders shook with deep intestine soundThe blooming groves that girdled her around.Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,In peace upon her sloping sides matured.When on a day, like that of the last doom,A conflagration labouring in her womb,She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth,That shook the circling seas and solid earth.Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,Can trace the torrent as it burns along?Havoc and devastation in the van,It marches o'er the prostrate works of man;Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,And all the charms of a Sicilian year.Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,See it an uninformed and idle mass;Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,Or blade that might redeem it from despair.Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets!The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance roundBrings to the distant ear a sullen sound:Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe,Again pours ruin on the vale below.Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,That only future ages can restore.Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,Who write in blood the merits of your cause,Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence,Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;Behold in Ætna's emblematic firesThe mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain,And tells you where you have a right to reign,A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,Studious of peace, their neighbour's and their own,Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rueTheir only crime, vicinity to you!The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road;At every step beneath their feet they treadThe life of multitudes, a nation's bread!Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dressBefore them, and behind a wilderness.Famine, and Pestilence, her firstborn son,Attend to finish what the sword begun;And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,And folly pays, resound at your return.A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her trainOf heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again:And years of pining indigence must showWhat scourges are the gods that rule below.Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain,And the sun gilds the shining spires again.Increasing commerce and reviving artRenew the quarrel on the conqueror's part;And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,That wealth within is ruin at the door.What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say,But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar,To prove you there destroyers as ye are.O place me in some heaven-protected isle,Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;Where Power secures what Industry has won;Where to succeed is not to be undone;A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.
There was a time when Ætna's silent fireSlept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire;When, conscious of no danger from below,She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.No thunders shook with deep intestine soundThe blooming groves that girdled her around.Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,In peace upon her sloping sides matured.When on a day, like that of the last doom,A conflagration labouring in her womb,She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth,That shook the circling seas and solid earth.Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,Can trace the torrent as it burns along?Havoc and devastation in the van,It marches o'er the prostrate works of man;Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,And all the charms of a Sicilian year.Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,See it an uninformed and idle mass;Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,Or blade that might redeem it from despair.Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets!The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance roundBrings to the distant ear a sullen sound:Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe,Again pours ruin on the vale below.Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,That only future ages can restore.Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,Who write in blood the merits of your cause,Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence,Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;Behold in Ætna's emblematic firesThe mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain,And tells you where you have a right to reign,A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,Studious of peace, their neighbour's and their own,Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rueTheir only crime, vicinity to you!The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road;At every step beneath their feet they treadThe life of multitudes, a nation's bread!Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dressBefore them, and behind a wilderness.Famine, and Pestilence, her firstborn son,Attend to finish what the sword begun;And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,And folly pays, resound at your return.A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her trainOf heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again:And years of pining indigence must showWhat scourges are the gods that rule below.Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain,And the sun gilds the shining spires again.Increasing commerce and reviving artRenew the quarrel on the conqueror's part;And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,That wealth within is ruin at the door.What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say,But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar,To prove you there destroyers as ye are.O place me in some heaven-protected isle,Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;Where Power secures what Industry has won;Where to succeed is not to be undone;A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'dWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here:Who bidst me honour with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long.I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream, that thou art she.My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,I learn'd at last submission to my lot,But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'dIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fair,That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit or confectionary plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'dBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaksThat humour interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honours to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I prick'd them into paper with a pin,(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isleWhere spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay:So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"[825]And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchor'd by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distress'd—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'dSails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents pass'd into the skies.And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'dWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here:Who bidst me honour with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long.I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream, that thou art she.My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,I learn'd at last submission to my lot,But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'dIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fair,That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit or confectionary plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'dBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaksThat humour interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honours to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I prick'd them into paper with a pin,(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isleWhere spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay:So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"[825]And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchor'd by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distress'd—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'dSails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents pass'd into the skies.And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
What virtue, or what mental graceBut men unqualified and baseWill boast it their possession?Profusion apes the noble partOf liberality of heart,And dullness of discretion.If every polish'd gem we find,Illuminating heart or mind,Provoke to imitation;No wonder friendship does the same,That jewel of the purest flame,Or rather constellation.No knave but boldly will pretendThe requisites that form a friend,A real and a sound one;Nor any fool, he would deceive,But prove as ready to believe,And dream that he had found one.Candid, and generous, and just,Boys care but little whom they trust,An error soon corrected—For who but learns in riper yearsThat man, when smoothest he appears,Is most to be suspected?But here again a danger lies,Lest, having misapplied our eyes,And taken trash for treasure,We should unwarily concludeFriendship a false ideal good,A mere Utopian pleasure.An acquisition rather rareIs yet no subject of despair;Nor is it wise complaining,If, either on forbidden ground,Or where it was not to be found,We sought without attaining.No friendship will abide the test,That stands on sordid interest,Or mean self-love erected;Nor such as may awhile subsistBetween the sot and sensualist,For vicious ends connected.Who seek a friend should come disposedTo exhibit, in full bloom disclosed,The graces and the beautiesThat form the character he seeks,For 'tis a union that bespeaksReciprocated duties.Mutual attention is implied,And equal truth on either side,And constantly supported;'Tis senseless arrogance to accuseAnother of sinister views,Our own as much distorted.But will sincerity suffice?It is indeed above all price,And must be made the basis;But every virtue of the soulMust constitute the charming whole,All shining in their places.A fretful temper will divideThe closest knot that may be tied,By ceaseless sharp corrosion;A temper passionate and fierceMay suddenly your joys disperseAt one immense explosion.In vain the talkative uniteIn hopes of permanent delight—The secret just committed,Forgetting its important weight,They drop through mere desire to prate,And by themselves outwitted.How bright soe'er the prospect seems,All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,If envy chance to creep in;An envious man, if you succeed,May prove a dangerous foe indeed,But not a friend worth keeping.As envy pines at good possess'd,So jealousy looks forth distress'dOn good that seems approaching;And, if success his steps attend,Discerns a rival in a friend,And hates him for encroaching.Hence authors of illustrious name,Unless belied by common fame,Are sadly prone to quarrel,To deem the wit a friend displaysA tax upon their own just praise,And pluck each other's laurel.A man renown'd for reparteeWill seldom scruple to make freeWith friendship's finest feeling,Will thrust a dagger at your breast,And say he wounded you in jest,By way of balm for healing.Whoever keeps an open earFor tattlers will be sure to hearThe trumpet of contention;Aspersion is the babbler's trade,To listen is to lend him aid,And rush into dissension.A friendship that in frequent fitsOf controversial rage emitsThe sparks of disputation,Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates,Most unavoidably createsThe thought of conflagration.Some fickle creatures boast a soulTrue as a needle to the pole,Their humour yet so various—They manifest their whole life throughThe needle's deviations too,Their love is so precarious.The great and small but rarely meetOn terms of amity complete;Plebeians must surrender,And yield so much to noble folk,It is combining fire with smoke,Obscurity with splendour.Some are so placid and serene(As Irish bogs are always green)They sleep secure from waking;And are indeed a bog, that bearsYour unparticipated caresUnmoved and without quaking.Courtier and patriot cannot mixTheir heterogeneous politicsWithout an effervescence,Like that of salts with lemon juice,Which does not yet like that produceA friendly coalescence.Religion should extinguish strife,And make a calm of human life;But friends that chance to differOn points which God has left at large,How freely will they meet and chargeNo combatants are stiffer.To prove at last my main intentNeeds no expense of argument,No cutting and contriving—Seeking a real friend, we seemTo adopt the chemist's golden dream,With still less hope of thriving.Sometimes the fault is all our own,Some blemish in due time made knownBy trespass or omission;Sometimes occasion brings to lightOur friend's defect, long hid from sight,And even from suspicion.Then judge yourself, and prove your manAs circumspectly as you can,And, having made election,Beware no negligence of yours,Such as a friend but ill endures,Enfeeble his affection.That secrets are a sacred trust,That friends should be sincere and just,That constancy befits them,Are observations on the case,That savour much of common place,And all the world admits them.But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone,An architect requires aloneTo finish a fine building—The palace were but half complete,If he could possibly forgetThe carving and the gilding.The man that hails you Tom or Jack,And proves by thumps upon your backHow he esteems your merit,Is such a friend, that one had needBe very much his friend indeedTo pardon or to bear it.As similarity of mind,Or something not to be defined,First fixes our attention;So manners decent and polite,The same we practised at first sight,Must save it from declension.Some act upon this prudent plan,"Say little, and hear all you can."Safe policy, but hateful—So barren sands imbibe the shower,But render neither fruit nor flower,Unpleasant and ungrateful.The man I trust, if shy to me,Shall find me as reserved as he,No subterfuge or pleadingShall win my confidence again;I will by no means entertainA spy on my proceeding.These samples—for alas! at lastThese are but samples, and a tasteOf evils yet unmention'd—May prove the task a task indeed,In which 'tis much if we succeed,However well intention'd.Pursue the search, and you will findGood sense and knowledge of mankindTo be at least expedient,And, after summing all the rest,Religion ruling in the breastA principal ingredient.The noblest Friendship ever shownThe Saviour's history makes known,Though some have turn'd and turn'd it;And, whether being crazed or blind,Or seeking with a biass'd mind,Have not, it seems, discern'd it.O Friendship! if my soul foregoThy dear delights while here below,To mortify and grieve me,May I myself at last appearUnworthy, base, and insincere,Or may my friend deceive me!
What virtue, or what mental graceBut men unqualified and baseWill boast it their possession?Profusion apes the noble partOf liberality of heart,And dullness of discretion.
If every polish'd gem we find,Illuminating heart or mind,Provoke to imitation;No wonder friendship does the same,That jewel of the purest flame,Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretendThe requisites that form a friend,A real and a sound one;Nor any fool, he would deceive,But prove as ready to believe,And dream that he had found one.
Candid, and generous, and just,Boys care but little whom they trust,An error soon corrected—For who but learns in riper yearsThat man, when smoothest he appears,Is most to be suspected?
But here again a danger lies,Lest, having misapplied our eyes,And taken trash for treasure,We should unwarily concludeFriendship a false ideal good,A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rareIs yet no subject of despair;Nor is it wise complaining,If, either on forbidden ground,Or where it was not to be found,We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,That stands on sordid interest,Or mean self-love erected;Nor such as may awhile subsistBetween the sot and sensualist,For vicious ends connected.
Who seek a friend should come disposedTo exhibit, in full bloom disclosed,The graces and the beautiesThat form the character he seeks,For 'tis a union that bespeaksReciprocated duties.
Mutual attention is implied,And equal truth on either side,And constantly supported;'Tis senseless arrogance to accuseAnother of sinister views,Our own as much distorted.
But will sincerity suffice?It is indeed above all price,And must be made the basis;But every virtue of the soulMust constitute the charming whole,All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divideThe closest knot that may be tied,By ceaseless sharp corrosion;A temper passionate and fierceMay suddenly your joys disperseAt one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative uniteIn hopes of permanent delight—The secret just committed,Forgetting its important weight,They drop through mere desire to prate,And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems,All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,If envy chance to creep in;An envious man, if you succeed,May prove a dangerous foe indeed,But not a friend worth keeping.
As envy pines at good possess'd,So jealousy looks forth distress'dOn good that seems approaching;And, if success his steps attend,Discerns a rival in a friend,And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name,Unless belied by common fame,Are sadly prone to quarrel,To deem the wit a friend displaysA tax upon their own just praise,And pluck each other's laurel.
A man renown'd for reparteeWill seldom scruple to make freeWith friendship's finest feeling,Will thrust a dagger at your breast,And say he wounded you in jest,By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open earFor tattlers will be sure to hearThe trumpet of contention;Aspersion is the babbler's trade,To listen is to lend him aid,And rush into dissension.
A friendship that in frequent fitsOf controversial rage emitsThe sparks of disputation,Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates,Most unavoidably createsThe thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soulTrue as a needle to the pole,Their humour yet so various—They manifest their whole life throughThe needle's deviations too,Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meetOn terms of amity complete;Plebeians must surrender,And yield so much to noble folk,It is combining fire with smoke,Obscurity with splendour.
Some are so placid and serene(As Irish bogs are always green)They sleep secure from waking;And are indeed a bog, that bearsYour unparticipated caresUnmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mixTheir heterogeneous politicsWithout an effervescence,Like that of salts with lemon juice,Which does not yet like that produceA friendly coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife,And make a calm of human life;But friends that chance to differOn points which God has left at large,How freely will they meet and chargeNo combatants are stiffer.
To prove at last my main intentNeeds no expense of argument,No cutting and contriving—Seeking a real friend, we seemTo adopt the chemist's golden dream,With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,Some blemish in due time made knownBy trespass or omission;Sometimes occasion brings to lightOur friend's defect, long hid from sight,And even from suspicion.
Then judge yourself, and prove your manAs circumspectly as you can,And, having made election,Beware no negligence of yours,Such as a friend but ill endures,Enfeeble his affection.
That secrets are a sacred trust,That friends should be sincere and just,That constancy befits them,Are observations on the case,That savour much of common place,And all the world admits them.
But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone,An architect requires aloneTo finish a fine building—The palace were but half complete,If he could possibly forgetThe carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack,And proves by thumps upon your backHow he esteems your merit,Is such a friend, that one had needBe very much his friend indeedTo pardon or to bear it.
As similarity of mind,Or something not to be defined,First fixes our attention;So manners decent and polite,The same we practised at first sight,Must save it from declension.
Some act upon this prudent plan,"Say little, and hear all you can."Safe policy, but hateful—So barren sands imbibe the shower,But render neither fruit nor flower,Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me,Shall find me as reserved as he,No subterfuge or pleadingShall win my confidence again;I will by no means entertainA spy on my proceeding.
These samples—for alas! at lastThese are but samples, and a tasteOf evils yet unmention'd—May prove the task a task indeed,In which 'tis much if we succeed,However well intention'd.
Pursue the search, and you will findGood sense and knowledge of mankindTo be at least expedient,And, after summing all the rest,Religion ruling in the breastA principal ingredient.
The noblest Friendship ever shownThe Saviour's history makes known,Though some have turn'd and turn'd it;And, whether being crazed or blind,Or seeking with a biass'd mind,Have not, it seems, discern'd it.
O Friendship! if my soul foregoThy dear delights while here below,To mortify and grieve me,May I myself at last appearUnworthy, base, and insincere,Or may my friend deceive me!
WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.