John Taylor Esq.

Mary Robinson, "To John Taylor, Esq." 1795 ca.; Robinson, Poetical Works (1806) 3:236-37.

To the heart that has feeling, what gift is so rare
As the wreath which the hand of true elegance weaves?
'Tis the only delight which proud friendship can share;
For bestowing it, tastes the same rapture it gives!

Like the soft dews of morning, it flows from the mind!
To expand the weak blossom, just waking to day!
Like the sunbeam, with warmth and with lustre combin'd,
It diffuses its perfumes, and bids it look gay!

Then think not the praises your kindness bestows,
Like the zephyrs, pass over my bosom, and die;
For, I know, 'tis from friendship the bright current flows,
That reflects the small flow'ret with tints of the sky!

With the fair hand of nature to guide me along,
I no laurel from art or from learning implore!
For my bosom, that prompts the rude efforts of song,
Courts the wild-rose of fancy, and asks for no more!

The rose that pure friendship divests of its thorns!
And the breath of fond praise bids eternally bloom!
That thro' life the rough path-way with fragrance adorns!
And with hope's gentle promise encircles the tomb!