« السابقةمتابعة »
Hence authors of illustrious name
Are sadly prone to quarrel,
A man renown'd for repartee
With Friendship's finest feeling,
Whoever keeps an open ear
The trumpet of Contention: Aspersion is the babbler's trade, To listen is to lend him aid,
And rush into dissension.
A friendship that in frequent fits
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
Their humour yet so variousThey manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too,
Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet
Some are so placid and serene
They sleep secure from waking;
Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Without an effervescence,
Religion should extinguish strife,
But friends that chance to differ On points which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge! No combatants are stiffer.
To prove at last my main intent
No cutting and contriving— Seeking a real friend we seem To' adopt the chemist's golden dream, With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can,
And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection.
That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,
Are observations on the case
But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone,
The carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
As similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defined,
Some act upon this prudent plan, 'Say little, and hear all you can.'
Safe policy, but hateful
So barren sands imbibe the shower,
The man I trust, if shy to me,
No subterfuge or pleading
These samples for alas! at last
Of evils yet unmention'd—
However well intention'd.
Pursue the search and you will find
The noblest friendship ever shown
Have not, it seems, discern'd it.
ODE TO PEACE,
COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need not part. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles? For whom, alas! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove, and the sequester'd shed, To be a guest with them?