Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintr（2 / 2）

pity the tuneful muses' hapless train,

weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main!

their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,

that never gives—tho' humbly takes enough;

the little fate allows, they share as soon,

unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon:

the world were blest 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 ones 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 distinguished—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 hopes for future times.

why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,

backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid?

i know my need, i know thy 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 injured 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 clam'rous cry of starving want,

they dun benevolence with shameless front;

oblige them, patronise 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 pie-bald jacket let me patch once more,

on eighteenpence a week i've liv'd before.

tho', thanks to heaven, i dare even that last shift,

i trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:

that, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height,

where, man and nature fairer in her sight,

my muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.