Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintr(2/3)
longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
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,
attach'd him 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 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 sub
yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
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,
attach'd him 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 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 sub
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