Epistle The Thirteenth Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MR. THOS. WANNUP, OF GREAT CORBY.

Dear friend! (for friends too oft are few)
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
May such have happiness in view,
And rest in peace;
Still scorning the tyrannic crew,
Who cares increase.

O that 'twere mine the pow'r to serve
Those, who a brother's praise deserve,--
Those who, rejoic'd, would strain each nerve
The poor to save;
Ne'er from that duty would I swerve
Till in the grave!

But mortals' wishes oft are vain;
Oft prove the source of care and pain;
While some, exulting, seek to gain
What leads to woe,--
Ne'er may I scorn, with cold disdain,
Where much I owe.

Return'd to each lov'd native scene,
Rocks, wood--crown'd hills, and valleys green,
Tho' long my Muse hath absent been,
With me she roves,
To paint--what may give some the spleen,
But merit moves.

Still may she wear the rustic dress,
And soothe the suff'rer in distress;
Now thousands round roam pennyless,
Of health bereft,--
That men may such with plenty bless,
Few hopes are left.

Still may she mark each loving pair,
Who life enjoy, and laugh at care,
Who steer the course that's bright and fair--
To peace inclin'd;
Who scorn the world's entangling snare,
And serve mankind.

Yes, mine the theme shall ever be,
Friends to amuse with harmless glee;
To let the virtuous ploughman see
A portrait true;
For nature's rural scenes, to me,
Are still in view.

Those who oppose a brother's right;
The upstart proud; the worthless wight;
The wretch who errs in reason's spite,
May purchase praise;
Such, only, who in good delight,
Should grace our lays.

Dear friend! to whom my thanks are due;
Till time to death shall bid thee bow,
May no dull cares e'er cloud thy brow,
But joy prevail;
And proud thy offspring speed the plough
O'er hill and dale.

In fancy, I thy fields survey;
Thro' Corby's woods and valleys stray,
At op'ning morn, or evening grey,
In many a grove,
Where minstrels sweet their homage pay
To Him above.

When rakes their midnight revels keep,
I trace the scenes near Eden deep;--
Oft that romantic rocky steep,
Where thousands bend;
And now, in age, I'll proudly creep,
To meet my friend.