"Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation-prosper even mine. AN EPISTLE то JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago- One proof should serve-a reference to you. Y Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occur'd to kindle strife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none? Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour-door upon it's hinge, Dreading a negative, and overaw'd Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose. Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But not to moralize too much, and strain, But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. O happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; |