The Complaint

And does my friend with kindly ray, My humble verse regard? And does he prize the artless lay, And does he prize the Bard?

The Bard, who oft in Pleasure's bow'r, Hath turn'd his early song; When Love led on the sportive hour, And fir'd the youthful throng?

And shall he now, in Reason's reign, The well-known theme forego? And shall he not resume the strain; And must it cease to flow?

Ah me! the scenes of fond delight, That wont to charm, are o'er; And now no more the Muse invite, And wake the lyre no more:

For hard Suspicion's anger'd eye, Deems all it sees unjust; And jaundic'd Envy, low'ring by, Supports the foul mistrust.

E'en She, whose breast with kindness glows, That kindness doth suspend; She too the shaft of censure throws, And points it at her friend;

That shaft, which hurl'd in open air, When proud defiance calls, With manly fortitude we bear, Regardless where it falls;

That shaft, which veil'd in friendship's band, Inflicts severer smart, Flies doubly fierce from friendship's hand, And deeper stabs the heart.

And yet forbid, my plaintive song, Should seem too prompt to blame; For slander's sting hath found me long, And long hath pierc'd my fame:

And many an idle tale hath run, And much hath been believ'd, Of broken vows, and maids undone, Abandon'd, and deceiv'd.

Peace to all such—yet here I swear, And thou'lt the warmth excuse, The garb which knaves and villains wear, Thro' life I've scorn'd to use:

Tho' Love, with all its soft pursuits, Hath claim'd my yielding hours; Tho' oft I've cull'd its fairest fruits, And pluckt its choicest flow'rs—

Those flow'rs, those fruits, were nobly won, Not fraudulently stole, Love taught me how the race to run, But Truth secur'd the goal.

Then deem not hard, that now the Muse Laments her fav'rite strain: That thus she ventures to accuse; Accusing, to complain:

For much she joy'd, the nymphs among, To waste the frolic day; To form for them the grateful song, And carol time away.

But now no more the heaving sigh, Shall force the tear to start; But now no more the glist'ning eye, Shall speak the soften'd heart:

The tender scenes of earlier years, To harsher views shall yield; And Pride, her pageant sceptre rears, And Av'rice takes the field:—

These shall the sterner mind possess, To no past maxims true; Cold to them all, my Lord, unless To Friendship, and to you.