My fon! my fon! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine:

And may those pleafures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'ft thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!

O! foon, to me, may fummer-funs
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow houfe o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs, that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave.

TO

то

R***** G***** OF F*****, Esq.

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, liftlefs, teas'd, dejected, and depreft,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's reft);

Will generous G***** lift to his Poet's wail? (It foothes poor Mifery, hearkning to her

tale),

M 3

And

And hear him curfe the light he first survey'd And doubly curfe the lucklefs rhyming trade.

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One fhakes the forefts, and one fpurns the ground:

Thou giv'ft the ass his hide, the fnail his shell, Th' envenom'd wafp, victorious, guards his

cell.

Thy minions, kings defend, controul, devour. In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.Foxes and statesmen, fubtile wiles enfure; The cit and polecat ftink, and are fecure. Toads with their poifon, doctors with their drug,

The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are

fnug.

Ev'n

Ev'n filly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded fpear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fencelefs, naked child-the Bard!

A thing unteachable in world's skill,

And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated fight to shun;

No horns, but thofe by lucklefs Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulnefs' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blaft from ev'ry fide:
Vampyre bookfellers drain him to the heart,
And fcorpion Critics curelefs venom dart.

Critics appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : Bloody diffectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by caufelefs wanton malice wrung, By blockhead's daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By mifcreants torn, who ne'er one sprig muft

wear :

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in th' unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life.

Till fled each hope that once his bofom fir'd, And fled each Mufe that glorious once in

fpir'd,

Low-funk in fqualid, unprotected age,

Dead, even refentment, for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Cri-

tic's rage!

So,