 | The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq |  |
5
PREFACE.
Maturer life, with smiling eye, will view
The imperfect scenes, which youthful fancy drew.
The imperfect scenes, which youthful fancy drew.
While vernal years in swift succession roll,
And fancy's gairish prospects cheer the soul;
Beneath Mæcenas' guardian care, my muse
With panting breast her infant song pursues.
And fancy's gairish prospects cheer the soul;
Beneath Mæcenas' guardian care, my muse
With panting breast her infant song pursues.
To teach the rapid moments, as they fly
Beyond the utmost ken of mortal eye,
The smile of sportive pleasure to assume,
And bid the flowers of hope unfolding bloom;
To gild with bright improvement's flattering ray;
The fond remembrance of each passing day;
To mould the heart by sentiment and truth,
And bind the olive round the brow of youth;
These were the motives, which inspired the verse,
Though neither bold, nor elegantly terse,
Though in the strains no dazzling beauties shine,
Though poesy reject each embryo line;
Yet simple numbers, unrefined by art,
Here paint the warm effusions of the heart.
The lettered bigot, with sarcastick phlegm,
And lifeless system, may the song condemn;
But let proud criticks frown, whene'er I sing,
'Tis not to them I tune my vocal string;
If my harsh notes disgust your nicer ear,
Avert your heads, ye are not forced to hear.
While I adventure on the sea of song,
Propitious learning wafts my bark along;
Yet see, at candour's throne the suppliant sues,
In the low accents of the lisping muse.
Beyond the utmost ken of mortal eye,
The smile of sportive pleasure to assume,
And bid the flowers of hope unfolding bloom;
To gild with bright improvement's flattering ray;
The fond remembrance of each passing day;
To mould the heart by sentiment and truth,
And bind the olive round the brow of youth;
These were the motives, which inspired the verse,
Though neither bold, nor elegantly terse,
Though in the strains no dazzling beauties shine,
Though poesy reject each embryo line;
6
Here paint the warm effusions of the heart.
The lettered bigot, with sarcastick phlegm,
And lifeless system, may the song condemn;
But let proud criticks frown, whene'er I sing,
'Tis not to them I tune my vocal string;
If my harsh notes disgust your nicer ear,
Avert your heads, ye are not forced to hear.
While I adventure on the sea of song,
Propitious learning wafts my bark along;
Yet see, at candour's throne the suppliant sues,
In the low accents of the lisping muse.
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | |