MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESC
FORGIVE me, BURNEY, if to thee these late
And hasty products of a critic per,
Thyself no common judge of books and men,
In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.
My verse was offer'd to an older friend ;
The humbler prose has fallen to thy share:
Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,
What, spoken in thy presence, must offende
That, set aside some few caprices wild,
Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,
In all my threadings of this worldly maze,
(And I have watch'd thee almost from a child,)
Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,
I have not found a whiter soul than thine.