To the AUTHOR,
On the first Publication of his Poems.
Hail happy Britain! Land of Liberty!
Land of the Muses also now I find,
For surely Downman they reside with thee,
So rich thy fancy, and so pure thy mind.
Methought I saw them mounted on the wing,
And threatening to withdraw their wonted smile,
Prepared they seem'd in distant climes to sing,
No more on Albion's undeserving Isle.
I saw, and mourn'd, for I revered their power,
And what is life without their heavenly lays?
Who mid it's thorns shall raise the balmy flower?
Who sprinkle dew-drops o'er it's barren ways?
But thou, my Downman—how I call'd thee mine
I wist not, yet forgive the friendly zeal,
Unskill'd my heart in fraudulent design,
What nature prompts, I know not to conceal.
And why suspicion when no danger's near?
From thee who dreads the haughty, cold disdain?
Can scornful pride (unreasonable fear)
Sully a breast, so gentle, so humane?
As the fond Parent, when some foreign shore
Calls from her arms her son, her sole delight,
With aching heart hears the mad ocean roar,
And thousand anxious thoughts her mind affright.
Thus, when thy Muse, yet tender, yet unknown,
Thro the wide world thou wert resolved to send,
Say, when thou found'st her from thy bosom flown,
Did not like anxious thoughts that bosom rend?
Fain would I help thee to dispell those fears,
Nor aught of friendship's healing balm deny,
Fain would reduce the phantom that appears
Hideous, gigantic, to the timorous eye.
Curst be Ill-nature, eager to devour
Young Genius! Curst be envy, venom'd brute!
Which crops the beauties of the rising flower,
Or blasts it, ere it ripens into fruit.
These be thine enemies: to such as these
Thy tender song affords delicious food,
Expect their hate, and be content to please
None but the elegant, polite, and good.
In full possession of thy fair one's charms,
When all the world shall call thee happy youth,
When Thespia, lovely Thespia's willing arms
Soon shall reward thy constancy and truth;
Leave then thy amorous elegiac lays,
Smooth as the gliding movement of the Dove,
Thy flight to Heaven on bolder pinions raise,
And nobly emulate the bird of Jove.
To celebrate the wise, the truly great,
In lyric, or in epic strain be thine,
Draw modest worth from it's obscure retreat,
And with due lustre make it's virtues shine.
Or if the cause demands to arm thy pen,
Dare to chastise the loose abandon'd race,
“Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men,”
And make each Cynthio tremble to be base.
This thy employ. —I, whose aspiring mind
Life's toil restrains, and damps poetic fire,
Pleased will behold thee; and far, far behind,
Will learn at humble distance to admire.
Tiverton, July 25, 1768. T. WOOD.
