Yes —in my gayest moments! happiest days!
I've felt—not vainly felt—the breath of praise;
Ingenuous praise my ardent bosom fir'd,
Drew forth my numbers, and my Muse inspir'd!
Praise, well bestow'd, as fresh'ning breezes fan
And meliorate the soil, improves the man;
While churlish censure, like an April frost,
Nips the young blossom, and the fruit is lost!
But of all evils that the bard attend,
Envy's the worst when harbour'd by a friend!
When the whose partial eyes should love your lays,
With jealous feelings sickens at your praise;
While crouds applaud, he seems to stand unmov'd,
Or tries to censure what he once approv'd,
That such a failing in a friend I've found,
Gives to my breast a melancholy wound;
Yet human frailty is of man the lot,
And his shall be conceal'd—if not forgot;
His name, in spleen, I never mean to tell,
Spite of his fault, I love his worth too well!