TO A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND.

You say ’tis plain that poets feign,
   And from the truth depart;
They write with ease what fibs they please,
   With artifice, not art;
Dearer to you the simply true—­
   The fact without the fancy—­
Than this false play of colours gay,
   So very vague and chancy. 
No doubt ’tis well the truth to tell
   In scientific coteries;
But I’ll be bold to say she’s cold,
   Excepting to her votaries. 
The false disguise of tawdry lies
   May hide sweet Nature’s face;
But in her form the blood runs warm,
   As in the human race;
And in the rose the dew-drop glows,
   And, o’er the seas serene,
The sunshine white still breaks in light
   Of yellow, blue, and green. 
In thousand rays the fancy plays;
   The feelings rise and bubble;
The mind receives, the heart believes,
   And makes each pleasure double. 
Then spare to draw without a flaw,
   Nor all too perfect make her,
Lest Nature wear the dull, cold air
   Of some demurest Quaker—­
Whose mien austere is void of cheer,
   Or sense of sins forgiven,
And her sweet face has lost all grace
   Of either earth or heaven.

GLASGOW:  PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE.

Footnotes

{5} Milton only received 10 pounds for Paradise Lost, and there is a good story told that some one copied it out in manuscript and sent it successively to three great London publishers, who all declined it as unsuitable to the public taste.

{143} Three of the Justices of Appeal.