"Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear, whofe eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudeft ftrain, Whose approbation-prosper even mine. AN EPISTLE то JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago— ("Twas therefore much the fame in ancient days) Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none? Can gold grow worthlefs that has stood the touch? No-gold they seem'd, but they were never such. Horatio's fervant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overaw'd Left he should trefpafs, begg'd to go abroad. I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But fomewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Elfe he was feldom bitter or morofe. Perhaps, his confidence juft then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. But, not to moralize too much, and ftrain Once on a time an emp'ror, a wife man No matter where, in China or Japan Decreed that whofoever fhould offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once, should ever after wear Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; |