Aspersion is the babbler's trade, To listen is to lend him aid, And rush into dissension.
A friendship, that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand in hand insurance plates, Most unavoidably creates
The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole,
Their humour yet so various- They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too,
Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete;
Plebeians must surrender And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour.
Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green) They sleep secure from waking, And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares
Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life;
But friends that chance to differ On points, which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge! No combatants are stiffer.
To prove at last my main intent Needs no expense of argument, No cutting and contriving- Seeking a real friend we seem T'adopt the chemist's golden dream, With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own, Some blemish in due time made known By tresspass or omission; Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect long hid from sight, And even from suspicion.
Then judge yourself and prove your man As circumspectly as you can,
And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection.
That secrets are a sacred trust, That friends should be sincere and just, That constancy befits them, Are observations on the case, That savour much of common-place, And all the world admits them.
But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone, To finish a fine building-
The palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget
The carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend, that one had need Be very much his friend indeed, To pardon or to bear it.
A similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defined, First fixes our attention ; So manners decent and polite, The same we practised at first sight, Must save it from declension.
Some act upon this prudent plan, "Say little and hear all you can:" Safe policy, but hateful—
So barren sands imbibe the shower, But render neither fruit nor flower, Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me, Shall find me as reserved as he; No subterfuge or pleading Shall win my confidence again; I will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding.
These samples-for alas! at last These are but samples, and a taste Of evils yet unmentioned- May prove the task a task indeed, In which 'tis much if he succeed However well-intentioned.
Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest, Religion ruling in the breast A principal ingredient.
The noblest friendship ever shown The Saviour's history makes known, Though some have turned and turned it; And whether being crazed or blind, Or seeking with a biassed mind, Have not, it seems, discerned it.
O Friendship, if my soul forego Thy dear delights while here below; To mortify and grieve me, May I myself at last appear Unworthy, base, and insincere.
Or may my friend deceive me!
WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.
Go-Thou art all unfit to share The pleasures of this place With such as its old tenants are, Creatures of gentler race.
The squirrel here his hoard provides, Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides Of rugged oaks for worms.
The sheep here smothes the knotted thorn
With frictions of her fleece;
And here I wander eve and morn,
Like her, a friend to peace.
Ah!-I could pity the exiled From this secure retreat- I would not lose it to be styled The happiest of the great.
But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy pleasure is to show Thy magnanimity in fight,
Thy prowess-therefore go
I care not whether east or north, So I no more may find thee; The angry muse thus sings thee forth, And claps the gate behind thee.
ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.
Written in Commemoration of his Majesty's happy Recovery.
I RANSACKED, for a theme of song, Much ancient chronicle and long; I read of bright embattled fields, Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, Of chiefs whose single arm could boast Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared Already by some happier bard.
To modern times, with Truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied; Here cities won and fleets dispersed, Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, Deeds of unperishing renown, Our fathers' triumphs and our own.
Thus, as the bee, from bank to bower, Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none, till that be found,
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