EPISTLE
TO
COLONEL ST. GEORGE.
WRITTEN APRIL 1783,
Sinec with the laurels, whose luxuriant bough
Oft veils the sternness of the warrior's brow,
For thee the arts their varied foliage twine,
Their roses blossom, and their myrtles shine,
Why, St. George, should thy soul disdain the powers
So fondly cultur'd in the muses' bowers?
O! shall the etherial dews, by Genius shed,
In full libation, on thy favour'd head,
Be scorn'd, for that their joy-dispensing flood
Feeds not the wreath that vegetates on blood?
Not so the warrior, who, like thee, surveys
Heroic glory with an eagle's gaze,
Great Frederic!—Form of steel, and soul of flame,
Who shares with Swedish Charles the palm of fame!
See him, the toils of camps and battles done,
Pant for the softer wreaths by Fancy won,
Spring to the muses' lists, and ardent dare
The lyric contest with the gay Voltaire!
Thou, whose high soul with kindred fires has glow'd
Whose generous blood in fuller stream has flow'd,
Whose finer fancy takes an ampler range,
Sublime, and humourous, in graceful change,
Ah! learn, like him, to prize the gentler powers,
That brighten languid life's oppressive hours,
Light with the torch of joy the social board,
When Peace in lilies hides the sated sword.
And pardon if beyond the deeds, that gain
The loudest pæan on the martial plain,
Each grace in thee my female sense admires,
Of softer texture, and of milder fires,
And, far beyond them all, the virtues bland,
The melting heart, the unwithdrawing hand,
That seek the Child of Want, and bounteous throw
Sweet balm of comfort on the mourner's woe.
Then, gallant St. George, let thy feeling heart
Conceive how deeply pain'd reflection's smart,
When I was taught to fear offence might spring
Late that I rashly touch'd a grating string,
By jealous honour proudly taught to jar,
When he, that wears the garland of the war,
Disgusted listens to the trivial voice,
Whose warm applause shall make an humbler choice;
Since, ah! too great of soul, the Hero says,
“Praise not heroic is unvalued praise.”
