EPISTLE. TO A. B*RL**D.
FEB.
1806. _____ RETIR’D, disgusted, from the tavern-roar, Where strong-lung’d ignorance does highest soar; Where silly ridicule is past for wit; And shallow laughter takes her gaping fit; Here lone I sit, in musing
melancholy, Resolv’d for ay to shun the court of folly; For, from whole years’ experience in her train, One hour of joy brings twenty
hours of pain. Now since I’m on the
would-be-better key, The muse soft whispers me to
write to thee, Not that she means a
self-debasing letter, But merely shew there’s hopes I
may turn better; That what stands bad to my
account of ill, You may set down to passion not to will. The fate-scourg’d exile destin’d still to roam, Thro’ desert wilds, far from
his early home, If some fair prospect meet this
sorrowing eyes, Like that he own’d beneath his native skies, Sad recollection, murthering
relief, He bursts in all the agonies of
grief; Mem’ry presents the volume of his care, And “harrows up his soul” with
“such thing were.” ’Tis so in life, when youth
folds up his page, And turns the leaf to dark,
blank, joyless age, Where sad experience speaks in
language plain, Her thoughts of bliss, and
highest hopes were vain; O'er present ills I think I see her mourn, And, “weep past joys that never
will return.” Then come, my friend, while yet in life’s gay noon, Ere grief’s dark clouds obscure
our summer-sun, Ere winter’s
sleety blasts around us howl, And chill our ev’ry energy of soul-- Let us look back, retrace the
ways we’ve trod, Mark virtue’s paths from guilty
pleasure’s road, And, stead of wand’ring in a
devious maze, Mark some few precepts for our future days. I mind, still well, when but a trifling boy, My young heart fluttered with a
savage joy, As with my sire I wander’d thro’ the wood, And found the mavis’
clump-lodg’d, callow brood, I tore them thence, exulting
o'er my prize, My father bade me list the
mother’s cries: “So thine would wail,” he said, “if
reft of thee.” It was a lesson of humanity. HUMANITY! thou’rt glory’s brightest star, Out-shining all the conquerer’s trophies far!
One individual act of generous
pity Is nobler far than ravaging a city; Ev’n let the blood-stain’d
ruffians call thee coward, An Alexander sinks beside a
Howard. Not to recount our every early joy, When all was happiness without
alloy; Nor tread again each flow’ry
field we trac’d, Light as the silk-wing’d butterflies we chac’d; Ere villain-falsehood taught the glowing mind, To look with cold suspicion on
mankind-- Let’s pass the valley of our
younger years, And further up-hill mark what now appears. We see the sensualist, fell vice’s slave, Fatigu’d, worn out, sink to an
early grave; We see the slave of av’rice
grind the poor, His thirst for gold increasing
with his store; Pack-horse of fortune, all his
days are care, Her burthens bearing to
his spendthrift heir. Next view the spendthrift,
joyous o'er his purse, Exchanging all his guineas for
remorse; On pleasure’s flow’r-deck’d
barge away he’s borne, Supine, till ev’ry flow’r starts up a thorn; Then all his pleasures fly,
like air-borne bubbles-- He ruin’d sinks,
“amidst a sea of troubles.” Hail TEMPERANCE! thou’rt
wisdom’s first, best lore, The sage in ev’ry age does thee
adore; Within thy pale we taste of
ev’ry joy, O'er-stepping that, our highest pleasures cloy; The heart-enliv’ning, friendly
social bowl, To rapt’rous extasy exalts the
soul; But when to midnight hour we keep it up, Next morning feels the poison
of the cup. Tho’ fate forbade the gifts of schoolmen mine, With classic-art to write the
polish’d line, Yet miners oft must gather
earth with gold, And truth may strike, tho’ e’er
so roughly told. If thou in aught would’st rise to eminence, Show not the faintest shadow of
pretence, Else busy scandal, with her thousand tongues, Will quickly find thee in ten
thousand wrongs; Each strives to tear his
neighbour’s honour down, As if detracting something from
his own. Of all the ills with which
mankind are curst, An envious, discontented mind’s the worst: There muddy spleen exalts her gloomy throne, Marks all conditions better
than her own: Hence defamation spreads her ant-bear tongue, And grimly pleas’d, feeds on
another’s wrong. Curse on the wretch, who, when
his neighbour’s blest, Erects his peace-destroying,
snaky crest! And he who sits in surly,
sullen mood, Repining at a fellow-mortal’s good! Man owns so little of true
happiness, That curst be he who makes that
little less! Vice to reclaim join not the old cant-cry, Of “son of Sathan, guilt and misery;” One good example, more the
point will carry, Than all th’ abuse in Scandal’s dictionary. The zealot
thinks he’ll go to heav’n direct, Adhering to the tenets of his
sect, E’en tho’ his practice lie in
this alone, To rail at all
persuasions but his own. In judging, still let moderation
guide; O'er-heated zeal is certain to mislead. First bow to God in heart-warm
gratitude, Next do our utmost for the
general good. In spite of all the forms which
men devise, ’Tis there where real solid
wisdom lies; And impious is the man who claims dominion, To damn his neighbour,
diff’ring in opinion. When suppliant misery
greets thy wand’ring eye, Altho’ in public, pass not
heedless by, Distress impels her to implore
the crowd, For that denied within her lone
abode; Give thou the trifling pittance
which she craves, Tho’ ostentation call’d by prudent knaves; So conscience will a rich reward
impart, And finer feelings play around
thy heart. When wealth with arrogance exalts his brow, And reckons poverty a wretch
most low, Let good intentions dignify thy
soul, And conscious rectitude will
crown the whole: Hence indigence will independence own, And soar above the haughty
despot’s frown. Still to thy lot be virtuously resign’d; Above all treasures prize thy
peace of mind; Then let not envy rob thy soul
of rest, Nor discontent e’er harbour in thy breast.
Be not too fond of popular applause, Which often echoes in a
villain’s cause, Whose specious sophistry gilds
his deceit, Till pow’r abus’d, in time
shews forth the cheat: Yet be’t thy pride to bear an honest fame; More dear
than life watch over thy good name; For he, poor man! who has no wish to gain it, Despises all the virtues
which attain it. Of friendship, still be secrecy the test, This maxim let be ’graven in my
breast-- Whate’er a friend enjoins me to
conceal, I’m weak, I’m base if I the
same reveal: Let honour, acting as a pow’rful
spell, Suppress that itching fondness still to tell; Else, unthank’d chronicle, the
cunning’s tool. The world will stamp me for a
gossip fool. Yet let us act an honest open
part, Nor curb the warm effusions of
the heart, Which, naturally,
virtuous, discommends Aught mean or base, e’en in our
dearest friends. But why this long unjointed scrawl to thee, Whose every action is a law to
me, Whose every deed proclaims thy
noble mind; Industrious,
independent, just, and kind. Me-thinks I hear thee say, “Each fool may teach, Since now my whim-led friend’s begun to preach!” But this first essay of my
preaching strain, Hear, and accept for
friendship’s sake. Amen. |