Epistle The Third Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MR. ROBERT CARLYLE.

O thou, my long--lov'd, and much--honour'd friend,
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
And melancholy still thy steps attend?
When virtue fires the youthful breast,
Her vot'ry, pure, should live secure;
And be, where'er he strays, a welcome guest.

Now smiles the season gay, which erst thine eye
Beheld, while by thy native streams,
Ting'd oft by Sol's departing beams,
The sober landscape made thy heart beat high:
Shall Spring, with all her joyous train,
Her sweets diffuse, of various hues,
And thou, in pensive numbers mark her reign?

Ah! no.--Since science hath illum'd thy mind,
And genius pour'd to thee her store,
Let sadness twine the wreath no more,
Of faded flow'rs, thy youthful brows to bind!
If reason bids us joy despise,
And guiltless mirth gives sorrow birth,
All may exclaim, ``'Tis folly to be wise!''

Self--exil'd mid' majestic scenes to roam,
Where Tay's proud streams incessant roar,
Or Lomond laves the wood--fring'd shore;
With grief, I saw thee quit thy happy home,
Where scowling pride thy merit view'd,
And mark'd a youth in quest of truth,
But mock'd his sufferings with ingratitude.

Alas! that genius e'er should know distress!
Or bend, in spite of reason's rules,
An abject slave to fortune's fools;
While bloated ignorance mankind caress!
Yet, heed not thou the world's sharp frown,
Content, and health, to haughty wealth,
And humble poverty, alike are known.

Bethink thee of the cares that all await;
Nor let dejection cloud thy brow,
If to the world thou'rt doom'd to bow;
Nor view with partial eye the pomp of state:
To nature's child, a virtuous name
Can give repose, and heal his woes,
More than doth e'er the air--blown bubble fame.

Why labours o'er his midnight lamp, the sage,
Still teaching man himself to know?
'Tis his, to trace the source of woe,
And ours, to glean instruction from his page;
To make the most of life's short span,
And seek of Heav'n, the promise giv'n;
These are the noblest studies of frail man.

Then court not, ere thy prime, the sombrous shade,
Where dwell disease, and cank'ring care;
Nor let the haggard fiend despair
Thy steps mislead; if by the world betray'd.
But, ah! if hope no more can cheer
Thy bosom, torn, in life's fair morn,
Long, long for thee shall Friendship shed the silent tear!