Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, and my compass lost, My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last, Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast, My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away, I sail along, unknowing how to steer, Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks appear. Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark, The rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark, 10 Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell, And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me! A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears-- Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings, Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings. * * * * * * * * * * * * TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHELBURNE. [June, 1780.] Ah! SHELBURNE, blest with all that's good or great T'adorn a rich, or save a sinking, state-- If public Ills engross not all thy care, Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear; Pity confined, but not less warm, impart, And unresisted win thy noble heart; Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share, Because I hope to have some interest there. Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun, Though with more fav'ring beams enlight'ning one; 10 As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest, Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest. Oh, hear the Virtue thou reverest plead; She'll swell thy breast, and there applaud the deed. She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray, And leads thee on to fame a shorter way; Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward, There's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard; A bard untrained in all but misery's school, Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool. 20 'Tis Glory prompts, and, as thou read'st, attend; She dictates pity, and becomes my friend; She bids each cold and dull reflection flee, And yields her Shelburne to distress and me! AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. [June, 1780.]