We own they’re prudent, but who feels they’re good? 
     Ye wise ones hence! ye hurt the social eye! 
     God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy! 
     But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,
     Heaven’s attribute distinguished—­to bestow! 
     Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: 
     Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace;
     Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! 
     Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
     Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,
     Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid? 
     I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
     I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;
     But there are such who court the tuneful Nine—­
     Heavens! should the branded character be mine! 
     Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows,
     Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
     Mark, how their lofty independent spirit
     Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! 
     Seek not the proofs in private life to find
     Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
     So, to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends,
     But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
     In all the clam’rous cry of starving want,
     They dun Benevolence with shameless front;
     Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays—­
     They persecute you all your future days! 
     Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
     My horny fist assume the plough again,
     The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more,
     On eighteenpence a week I’ve liv’d before. 
     Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift,
     I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 
     That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d-for height,
     Where, man and nature fairer in her sight,
     My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

Song.—­The Day Returns

     Tune—­“Seventh of November.”

     The day returns, my bosom burns,
     The blissful day we twa did meet: 
     Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d,
     Ne’er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
     Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
     And crosses o’er the sultry line;
     Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
     Heav’n gave me more—­it made thee mine!

     While day and night can bring delight,
     Or Nature aught of pleasure give;
     While joys above my mind can move,
     For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
     When that grim foe of life below
     Comes in between to make us part,
     The iron hand that breaks our band,
     It breaks my bliss—­it breaks my heart!

Song.—­O, Were I On Parnassus Hill

     Tune—­“My love is lost to me.”