Introductory Verses Poem by Christian Milne

WHILE worth and taste with generous hand entwine
A wreath to bind this humble brow of mine,
Kind ABERDONIA 's sons and daughters fair
Add each a twig or leaf with friendly care;
Nor scorn the simple works of one whose name
Has never swell'd the rolls or trump of Fame.
I'm griev'd to think, that those whose lot is thrown
Upon an equal level with my own,
Should view her now with envy, scorn, or hate,
Whose little gift lay buried till of late!
At six years old I felt my artless Muse
Begin her rays of fancy to diffuse;
Even then I felt my inclination strong
To pour my feeble, infant thoughts, in song.
Still, as I grew, in solitude I sought
An opportunity to rhyme my thought.
Clear was my memory, and retentive then,
The aid it wanted not of ink and pen:--
As thought maturer grew, and years increas'd,
I threw the former produce from my breast,
And put what I deem'd better in their place,
Which were discarded at a future space.--
For servitude, with its incessant toil,
Harsh damp'd my Muse, when she inclin'd to smile:
Tho' she at times would dart a sickly light,
To shew she was not yet extinguish'd quite.
When love, or gratitude, sorrow press'd,
I sought the Muses to relieve my breast;
I pour'd my thoughts in numbers by their aid;
They scorn'd not to assist the menial maid.
Whose rhymes I tore, from fear of rude abuse,
Tho' some were better than I now produce;
For those were wrote in cheerful lively strain,
Ere care and hardship taught me to complain.
But PROVIDENCE at last my footsteps led
To one fair Lady, who my bias fed;
She deign'd her favours on my verse to pour,
And told her friends she'd found a Bard obscure.
They, like herself, to generous acts inclin'd,
Drew forth the offspring of my untaught mind,
From where they long in embryo had dwelt,
Such fost'ring hands ne'er hoping to have felt.
Yet Spite and Ignorance, with sneering looks,
Assert my songs are drawn from printed books:
They're quite unfit to judge the simple flow,
The gift that Nature only can bestow.
Malicious Envy tries to brand my name,
Its false aspersions cloud my infant fame;
And Folly thinks such notice from the great
Will cause me to forget my humble state.
My mind she measures by her empty own,
Whose brain would turn were she such kindness shown.
Sure Folly cannot think that Heav'n bestows
On Fortune's sons alone such gifts as those:
To rich and poor all mental gifts are free,
And mark the fruitful from the barren tree.