But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work,
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard-tree to find;
And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attached hun to the generous, truly great,
A title, and the only one I claim,
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham
Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train,
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main !
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff,
That neither gives though humbly takes enough
The little fate allows, they share as soon,
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon.
The world were bless'd did bliss on them depend
Ah! that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!"
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule,
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!)
Who make poor will do wait upon I should
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good!
Ye wise once, hence! ye hurt the social eye!
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy !
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow!
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race;
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hope for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half-blushing, half-afraid,
Backward, abashed to ask ‘hy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know tny giving hand,
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine-
Heavens! should the branded character be mine!
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty, independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit!
Seek not the proofs in private life to find!
Pity the best of words should be but wind!
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clamorous cry of starving want,
They dun benevolence with shameful front;
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays,
They persecute you all your future days!
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume the plough again;
The piebald jacket let me patch once more;
On eighteen-pence a week I've lived before.
Though, thanks to heaven! I dare even that last shift
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift;
That placed by thee upon the wished-for height,
Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight,
My Muse may imp her wing or some sublimer flight
LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected and deprest,
'Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest,)
Will gen'rous Graham list his Poet's wail?
(It soothes poor Misery heark'ning to her tale,)
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd
And doubly curse the luckless, rhyming trade!
Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found ;
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground:
Thou gi'est the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
Th' envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.
Foxes and statesmen, subtle wiles insure;
The cit and polecat stink and are secure.
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug,
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But oh! thou bitter step-mother, and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard' A thing unteachable in the world's skill, And half an idiot, too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur Clad in rich dulness, comfortable fur,
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
Critics! appall'd I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame •
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
Ile hacks to teach, they mangie to expose.
His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear.
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life,
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd,
Low sunk in squallid, unprotected age,
Dead, ev'n resentment for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage
So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,
For half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tuggin bitch's son.
O, Dulness! portion of the truly blest;
Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams
If mantling high she fills the golden cup
With sober, selfish ease they sip it up;
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog.
When disappointment suaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are Fortune's care.
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell.
I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, GLENCAIRN, the truly noble, lies in dust; {Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears ;) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer! FINTRA, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death
ON RECEIVING A FAVOR.
I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
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