An Epistle To A Young Gentleman, Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Inspir'd with friendship, fly, O muse!
To greet my Genius, a recluse!
Opprest, o'erwhelm'd with sullen grief -—
Haste -— now, or never, give relief. -—
Say, could a mitre or a gown,
Uncloud thy brow, unlock thy frown?
I wish thee these. —- What would'st thou more?
Is gold thy thirst? I wish thee store.—
If heav'n grant these unto thy mind,
Would'st thou be still my friend, and kind?
My jealous fears suggest the worst,
And then I wish preferments curst. -—
Be ever still within my reach,
For foxes have been said to preach,
I'd rather see thee with a sword,
Than with a bible serve the Lord;
Or poring o'er the Scottish code
To serve the lieges and thy God,
Than in a pulpit holderforth,
To whining creatures void of worth;
Besides, perhaps, it is not civil,
On Sundays to abuse the devil;
Who, notwithstanding, keeps the field,
And he'll be damn'd before he yield.