More golden than that age of fabled gold Of God and man, and peaceful in it's end. Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me then, that once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task; but soon, to please her more, "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— 1 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. |