What thou hast been the world may see, But guess not what thou still may'st be: Some in thy lines a Goldsmith see, Or Dyer's tone: They praise thy worst; the best of thee Is still unknown. Some grievously suspect thee, Clare: They want to know thy form of prayer: Thou dost not cant, and so they stare, And hint free-thinking: They bid thee of the devil beware, And vote thee sinking. With smile sedate and patient eye, Thou mark'st the zealots pass thee by To rave and raise a hue and cry Against each other: Thou see'st a Father up on high; In man a brother. I would not have a mind like thine Its artless childhood tastes resign, Jostle in mobs, or sup and dine Its powers away, And after noisy pleasures pine Some distant day. And, John, though you may mildly scoff, That hard, afflicting churchyard cough Gives pretty plain advice, "Be off, While yet you can." It is not time yet, John, to doff Your outward man. Drugs! can the balm of Gilead yield Health like the cowslip-yellow'd field? Come, sail down Avon and be heal'd, Thou Cockney Clare. My recipe is soon reveal'd-- Sun, sea, and air. What glue has fastened thus thy brains To kennel odours and brick lanes? Or is it intellect detains? For, faith, I'll own The provinces must take some pains To match the town. Does Agnus (1) fling his crotchets wild-- "In wit a man," in heart a child? Has Lepus (2) sense thine ear beguiled With easy strain? Or hast thou nodded blithe, and smiled At Janus' (3) vein? Does Nalla, (4) that mild giant, bow His dark and melancholy brow? Or are his lips distending now With roaring glee That tells the heart is in a glow-- The spirit free? Or does the Opium-eater (5) quell Thy wondering sprite with witching spell? Read'st thou the dreams of murkiest hell In that mild mien? Or dost thou doubt yet fear to tell Such e'er have been? And while around thy board the wine Lights up the glancing eyeballs' shine, Seest thou in elbow'd thought recline The Poet true (6) Who in "Colonna" seems divine To me and you? But, Clare, the birds will soon be flown: Our Cambridge wit resumes his gown: Our English Petrarch trundles down To Devon's valley: Why, when our Maga's out of town, Stand shilly-shally? The table-talk of London still Shall serve for chat by rock and rill, And you again may have your fill Of season'd mirth, But not if spade your chamber drill Six feet in earth. Come, then! Thou never saw'st an oak Much bigger than a wagon spoke: Thou only could'st the Muse invoke On treeless fen: Then come and aim a higher stroke, My man of men. The wheel and oar, by gurgling steam, Shall waft thee down the wood-brow'd stream, And the red channel's broadening gleam Dilate thy gaze, And thou shalt conjure up a theme For future lays.