ODE the First, TO Mr. John Mottley in the Country.
I
Strongly, dear Friend, paint in thy Mind,
A Wretch, the Remnant of a Wreck,
In Sight of Land, yet, Fate unkind!
By cruel Waves still driven back.
II
So, in his Schemes, the Poet cross'd,
When Chance, or Envy, blasts the Bays,
He, to his tasteless Patron loss'd,
Despairs of Profit, or of Praise.
III
What mighty Plans thy Friend has lay'd,
What golden Indias had in View,
Thou know'st, and how his Toils are pay'd;
Yet still he dares his Flight renew.
IV
While thus the Muse is held in Scorn,
No Suns of Joy to me are known;
But few observe the Bard forlorn:
My Griefs I only make my own.
V
Does Heav'n no joyous Minutes send?
No Balm to all thy Sorrows give?
Yes, I have Hours of Bliss, my Friend,
In which I more than seem to live.
VI
The Hours to Friendship set apart,
In which the Wretch his Comfort finds,
Relieve the Burden of the Heart:
True Source of Joy to noble Minds!
VII
But, like th'ecstatic Dreams of Love,
Too swift those happy Moments flow:
Then, in my Round, again I rove
Thro a long Interval of Woe.
VIII
While thus I grapple with my Fate,
These tender Thoughts of Friendship please:
Methinks I view thee in a State,
Where Nothing interrupts thine Ease.
IX
Or wand'ring in the woodland Glade,
Or by the painted Meadow's Stream,
Or lay'd beneath the cooling Shade,
You make the tender Nymph your Theme.
X
Indulge, my Friend, thy modest Vein,
While all the Joys of May inspire;
Prospects, gay smiling, aid the Strain,
Scenes all propitious to the Lyre!
XI
Enjoy, my Friend, thy happy Lot,
The Monarch of a peaceful Mind;
And I am bless'd, my Cares forgot,
While thou art true, and Nanny kind.
May, 1725.
