A GAIN , like the return of day,
From Avon's banks the cheering lay
Warms up a muse was well nigh lost
In depths of snow and chilling frost;
But generous praise the soul inspires,
More than rich wines and blazing fires.

Tho' on the Grampians I were chain'd,
And all the winter on me rain'd;
Altho' half starv'd, my sp'rit would spring
Up to new life to hear you sing.

I take even criticism kind,
That sparkles from so clear a mind:
Friends ought and may point out a spot,
But enemies make all a blot.
Friends sip the honey from the flow'r;
All 's verjuice to the waspish sour.

With more of nature than of art,
From stated rules I often start,
Rules never studied yet by me;
My muse is British, bold and free,
And loves at large to frisk and bound
Unmankl'd o'er poetic ground.

I love the garden wild and wide,
Where oaks have plumb-trees by their side;
Where woodbines and the twisting vine
Clip round the pear-tree and the pine;
Where mixt jonckeels and gowans grow,
And roses 'midst rank clover blow,
Upon a bank of a clear strand,
Its wimplings led by nature's hand;
Tho' docks and bramble here and there,
May sometimes cheat the gardner's care,
Yet this to me 's a paradise,
Compar'd with prime cut plots and nice,
Where nature has to art resign'd,
Till all looks mean, stiff, and confin'd.

May still my notes of rustic turn
Gain more of your respect than scorn;
I 'll hug my fate, and tell sour fools,
I 'm more oblig'd to heav'n than schools.
Heaven Homer taught: the critic draws
Only from him, and such, their laws:
The native bards first plunge the deep,
Before the artful dare to leap.
I 've seen myself right many a time
Copy'd in diction, mode, and rhyme.

Now, Sir, again let me expreis
My wishing thoughts in fond address;
That for your health, and love you bear
To two of my chief patrons here,
You 'd, when the lavrocks rouse the day,
When beams and dews make blythsome May,
When blooming fragrance glads our isle,
And hills with purple heather smile,
Drop fancy'd ails, with courage stout,
Ward off the spleen, the stone, and gout.
May ne'er such foes disturb your nights,
Or elbow out your day delights.
Here you will meet the jovial train,
Whose clangors eccho o'er the plain,
While hounds with gowls both loud and clear,
Well tun'd, delight the hunter's ear,
As they on coursers fleet as wind,
Pursue the fox, hart, hare, or hind:
Delightful game! where friendly ties
Are closer drawn, and health the prize.

We long for, and we wish you here,
Where friends are kind, and claret clear:
The lovely hope of Som'ril's race,
Who smiles with a seraphic grace,
And the fair sisters of the boy,
Will have, and add much to your joy.

Give warning to your noble friend;
Your humble servant shall attend,
A willing Sancho and your slave,
With the best humour that I have,
To meet you on that river's shore,
That Britons now divides no more.