72
A LETTER FROM THE COUNTRY TO A FRIEND IN TOWN,
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR'S INCLINATIONS TO POETRY.[1]
AS to that poet[2] (if so great a one as he,
May suffer in comparison with me)
When heretofore in Scythian exile pent,
To which he by ungrateful Rome was sent.
If a kind paper from his country came,
And wore subscribed some known and faithful name,
That, like a powerful cordial, did infuse
New life into his speechless gasping muse,
And straight his genius, which before did seem
Bound up in ice, and frozen as the clime,
By its warm force and friendly influence thawed,
Dissolved apace, and in soft numbers flowed;
Such welcome here, dear sir, your letter had
With me, shut up in close constraint as bad:
Not eager lovers, held in long suspense,
With warmer joy, and a more tender sense,
Meet those kind lines which all their wishes bless,
And sign and seal delivered happiness:
My grateful thoughts so throng to get abroad,
They overrun each other in the crowd:
To you with hasty flight they take their way,
And hardly for the dress of words will stay.
Yet pardon, if this only fault I find,
That while you praise too much, you are less kind:
Consider, sir, 'tis ill and dangerous thus
To over-lay a young and tender muse:
Praise, the fine diet which we're apt to love,
If given to excess, does hurtful prove:
