Classic Poem

TO MR. GEORGE GREENVILLE .

O H ! form'd alike to serve us and to please;
Polite with honesty, and learn'd with ease;
With heart to act, with genius to retire;
Open, yet wise; though gentle, full of fire;
With thee, I scorn the low constraint of art,
Nor fear to trust the follies of my heart:
Hear then from what my long despair arose,
The faithful story of a lover's woes.
When, in a sober melancholy hour,
Reduc'd by sickness under reason's power,
I view'd my state, too little weigh'd before,
And Love himself could flatter me no more,
My Delia's hopes I would no more deceive,
But whom my passion hurt, through friendship leave.
I chose the coldest words my heart to hide,
And cure her sex's weakness, through its pride.
The prudence, which I taught, I ill pursu'd;
The charm my reason broke, my heart renew'd;
Again submissive to her feet I came,
And prov'd too well my passion by my shame;
While she, secure in coldness, or disdain,
Forgot my love, or triumph'd in its pain;
Began with higher views, her thoughts to raise,
And scorn'd the humble poet of her praise:
She let each little lie, o'er truth prevail,
And strengthen'd by her faith, each groundless tale;
Believ'd the grossest arts, that malice try'd,
Nor once in thought, was on her lover's side:
Oh! where were then the scenes of fancied life!
Oh! where the friend, the mistress, and the wife!
Her years of promis'd love were quickly past,
Not two revolving moons could see them last! —
To Stowe's delightful scenes I now repair,
In Cobham's smile to lose the gloom of care;
Nor fear, that he my weakness should despise,
In nature learned, and humanely wise.
There Pitt, in manner soft, in friendship warm,
With mild advice, my listening grief shall charm,
With sense to counsel, and with wit to please,
A Roman's virtue, with a courtier's ease.
Nor you, my friend, whose heart is still at rest,
Contemn the human weakness of my breast;
Reason may chide the fault, she cannot cure;
And pains, which long we scorn'd, we oft endure;
Though wiser cares employ your studious mind,
Form'd with a soul so elegantly kind,
Your breast may lose the calm it long has known,
And learn my woes to pity, by its own.