An Epistle to a Friend ("May I not hope your patience will endure")

May I not hope your patience will endure
The plain wrought offering of a Muse obscure.
Say, shall it be less welcome 'cause it came
Signatur'd by one beneath th' heed of Fame?
Reduc'd by fortune to an humble state,
Deny'd by genius ever to be great.

Alas! I'm lost in thinking what to say,
Till thought kills thought, and drives my muse away:
At length I doze, and wander in my dreams,
Hunting new epithets, sentiments and themes;
Then pleas'd I wake, but find my treasures flown,
Before my eager hand can set 'em down.

How hard to please myself—what shall I do,
In such a case, how please the world and you?
My fancy breeds apace, no mortal's more,
But then the produce proves so very poor,
'Twill scarce deserve admittance at your door,
My days, thank fate, are well employ'd; at night
I spin a rhime or two by candle-light.

To aim at fame is dangerous indeed;
Scores make attempt but very few succeed.
Far be the thought, the fatal thought from me;
For ever let me boast humility;
To please a few, and that same few my friends,
Will be the summit of my hopes,—my ends
Wou'd be fulfill'd, cou'd I with humble-stride
Tread the smooth plain with H—d by my side.

Let others try the lofty hill to climb,
Soaring scholastic 'bove the reach of rhime;
Clad in the vest of Sophs, regardless stand,
The praise or censure of the Critic's hand;
Thirsting for pathos to confound the sense,
Like useless gewgaws shaming the expence:
O be it mine to speak in nature's strain!
At once to picture, and at once explain;—
No pomp of words cou'd e'er enrapture me,
Like pure-wrote sounds, in plain simplicity,
To trace out nature's wild and endless scene,
Her painted vallies, and her wood-lands green:
There can I seek for themes when fancy dies,
Walk thro' the forest, and observe the skies;
Nor seek in vain—each day sends something new,
Some new-born beauty rises to my view.
Cou'd I but steal the art of painting here
These scenes in verse, as they to me appear;
Had I the power with that art to please,
To paint 'em well, and paint 'em too with ease:
Cou'd I like you, at once ensnare the mind,
Engage the eye, and keep the heart confin'd,
And do it too with such engaging grace,
With manly strides the paths of nature trace,
The Muses then should claim each mite of time,
And ev'ry thought I'd jingle into rhime.
Vain hopes, alas!—but hopes are apt to please,
And fancy'd pleasures sometimes give us ease.
Credulity, a mild and simple maid,
Too oft, alas! by promises betray'd,
Follows the phantom Hope, with steps so fast,
Till Disappointment kills her at the last.

Ne'er let me be so curs'd, as to depend
Upon a Promise, or to lose a friend,
Nor pin my hopes too closely on the sleeve
Of old or young; I've found 'em both deceive;
The silver'd poll is apter e'er to sin,
Than he who ne'er felt razor on his chin;
Old age breeds craft, and near his elbow chair
Sits Folly plac'd, his favourite and heir;
Peace to all such, if such can peace enjoy,
Whose shallow promise tends but to destroy
Their neighbour's peace,—that wretch I envy not,
Who boasts a name by broken friendship got;
For ever will I bar my homely door,
Against the greatest knave, so meanly poor.
Conscience shall haunt the disingenuous slave,
And time shall lead him blindfold to his grave.

I boast no art, thence can no credit lose:
I paint to shew my meaning, not confuse:
No rogue to flatter, nor no friend abuse.
The meanest figure, claims as great a share
Of skill to paint it well, as the most fair.
But those the meanest of the mean I call,
Who gain, with all my pains no praise at all,

You that by nature have an heart design'd
To hear and heal the suff'rings of mankind,
May you ne'er trust the wretch whose friendship tends
To no one's good, but his own private ends.