The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel. Portentous spoke that pity in my breast, And pleaded self--who ever pleads the best. No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own-- To friends, to family, to foes unknown; Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design, Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine. One trial past, let sober Reason speak: 80 Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek? Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain A placid harbour from the stormy main; Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep, And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep. [A HUMBLE INVOCATION.] [1780.] When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled, And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. And thus, when Verse her wintry prospect weeps, When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps, When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar, And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites, Who led by hope and inclination writes; 10 With half their art, he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain with themes of love. [FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.] [April, 1780.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Of substance I've thought, and the varied disputes On the nature of man and the notions of brutes; Of systems confuted, and systems explain'd; Of science disputed, and tenets maintain'd. These, and such speculations on these kind of things, Have robb'd my poor Muse of her plume and her wings; Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire, The spirit extracted, extinguish'd the fire; Let out all the ether, so pure and refined, And left but a mere _caput mortuum_ behind. 10 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [CONCLUDING LINES OF AN EPISTLE TO PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY, AFTERWARDS KING WILLIAM IV.] [April, 1780.]