The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
| II. |
| III. |
[But, oh! that, Hervey! to thy classic ear] |
 | The peripatetic |  |
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[But, oh! that, Hervey! to thy classic ear]
But, oh! that, Hervey! to thy classic ear
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares,
And with this burthen saddens oft the strain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares,
And with this burthen saddens oft the strain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
For ah, what pity, since too well 'tis known
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's peerless bloom,
(The grain's best virtues, and the flower's perfume—
Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should e'er be left with heedless haste behind,
Its fragrance breathe to desert gales away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Hervey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
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How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's peerless bloom,
(The grain's best virtues, and the flower's perfume—
Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should e'er be left with heedless haste behind,
Its fragrance breathe to desert gales away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Hervey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
| The peripatetic | |