Stanzas to Ill-nature

Fiend abhorr'd! Mankind's worst foe!— Hence, thy darksome crew among— Haste,—and with thy jaundic'd brow, Fly the Muse's vengeful song!

Oft the hapless Muse hath borne Deep within the wounded heart, Fell Detraction's venom'd thorn, Pointed by thy treach'rous art.

Born of Envy, nurs'd by Spleen, Rear'd in Passion's blighting storm: Sorrow, anguish, care, chagrin, Mark thy hideous hateful form.

Fraud and falsehood swell thy train, Discord is thy sole employ, Baffl'd malice, all thy pain, Sated rancour, all thy joy.

Does the Muse with sportive power, Strive the gloom of life to cheer, Thou'lt arraign the harmless hour, Stifle peace, and nurture fear.

Does the flow of joy, or ease, Some endearing scenes supply; Every little wish to please Rouses thy malignity!

Humble genius, slender grace, Small desert may wait the Muse, Yet, if any spark we trace, Thy severest hate ensues.

Blacken'd by thy foul report, Mirth is mischief, laughter guile; Snares are seen in ev'ry sport; Perfidy in every smile.

Still thy arts, malicious fiend— Still thy hell-born schemes would fail, Did not oft the valued friend, Listen to thy specious tale.

Vain were each insidious charge, Effort feeble as unjust, Did alas! the world at large, Only hear, and only trust.

Did not oft the secret lie Break the bond of private peace, Bid domestic comfort fly, Love subside, and friendship cease?

Did not oft thy breath destroy, Fair Contentment's blooming flow'r, Wither ev'ry social joy, And corrode life's dearest hour?

Did not oft thy poison'd shaft, Pierce the breast that most we prize, And on fading faith engraft Doubt, constraint, and sad surmise?—

Luckless is that child of care, Who beneath thy scourge must live, Doom'd from early youth to bear All the torments thou canst give.

Once thy fatal influence spread, Candour takes no further part; Ignorance suspects the head, Prejudice belies the heart.

Hard and cruel is his lot, Every merit is denied; All his virtues are forgot, All his errors magnified.

Fiend relentless—Tyrant grim— Yet awhile, and all is o'er; When the lamp of life is dim, Thou wilt be observ'd no more.

When the sad, the funeral knell, Shall his parted breath proclaim, Faithful Mem'ry then shall tell, Whether he deserv'd such blame.

Love, perhaps, may o'er his tomb, Drop a tender silent tear; Friendship too lament a doom, Enmity may think severe,