TO
THE
REV.
HENRY
GOLDSMITH
.
DEAR
SIR
,
I
AM
sensible
that
the
friendship
between
us
can
acquire
no
new
force
from
the
ceremonies
of
a
Dedication
;
and
,
perhaps
,
it
demands
an
ex
cuse
thus
to
prefix
your
name
to
my
attempts
,
which
you
decline
giving
with
your
own
.
But
as
a
part
of
this
poem
was
formerly
written
to
you
from
Switzerland
,
the
whole
can
now
,
with
propriety
,
be
only
inscribed
to
you
.
It
will
al
so
throw
a
light
upon
many
parts
of
it
,
when
the
reader
understands
,
that
it
is
addressed
to
a
man
,
who
,
despising
fame
and
fortune
,
has
re
tired
early
to
happiness
and
obscurity
,
with
an
income
of
forty
pounds
a
year
.
I
now
perceive
,
my
dear
brother
,
the
wisdom
of
your
humble
choice
.
You
have
entered
upon
a
sacred
office
,
where
the
harvest
is
great
,
and
the
labourers
are
but
few
;
while
you
have
left
the
field
of
ambition
,
where
the
labourers
are
many
,
and
the
harvest
not
worth
carrying
away
.
But
of
all
kinds
of
ambition
,
as
things
are
now
circumstanced
,
perhaps
that
which
pursues
poeti
cal
fame
is
the
wildest
.
What
from
the
increas
ed
refinement
of
the
times
,
from
the
diversity
of
judgments
produced
by
opposing
systems
of
cri
ticism
,
and
from
the
more
prevalent
divisions
of
opinion
influenced
by
party
,
the
strongest
and
happiest
efforts
can
expect
to
please
but
in
a
very
narrow
circle
.
Poetry
makes
a
principal
amusement
among
unpolished
nations
;
but
in
a
country
verging
to
the
extremes
of
refinement
,
Painting
and
Music
come
in
for
a
share
.
And
as
they
offer
the
feeble
mind
a
less
laborious
entertainment
,
they
at
first
rival
Poetry
,
and
at
length
supplant
her
;
they
engross
all
favour
to
themselves
,
and
though
but
younger
sisters
,
seize
upon
the
elder's
birth-right
.
Yet
,
however
this
art
may
be
neglected
by
the
powerful
,
it
is
still
in
greater
danger
from
the
mistaken
efforts
of
the
learned
to
improve
it
.
What
criticisms
have
we
not
heard
of
late
in
fa
vour
of
blank
verse
,
and
Pindaric
odes
,
cho
russes
,
anapests
and
iambics
,
alliterative
care
and
happy
negligence
!
Every
absurdity
has
now
a
champion
to
defend
it
,
and
as
he
is
generally
much
in
the
wrong
,
so
he
has
always
much
to
say
;
for
error
is
ever
talkative
.
But
there
is
an
enemy
to
this
art
still
more
dan
gerous
,
I
mean
party
.
Party
entirely
distorts
the
judgment
,
and
destroys
the
taste
.
A
mind
capable
of
relishing
general
beauty
,
when
once
infected
with
this
disease
,
can
only
find
pleasure
in
what
contributes
to
increase
the
distemper
.
Like
the
tyger
that
seldom
desists
from
pursuing
man
after
having
once
preyed
upon
human
flesh
,
the
reader
,
who
has
once
gratified
his
appetite
with
calumny
,
makes
,
ever
after
,
the
most
agree
able
feast
upon
murdered
reputation
.
Such
readers
generally
admire
some
half-witted
thing
,
who
wants
to
be
thought
a
bold
man
,
having
lost
the
character
of
a
wise
one
.
Him
they
dig
nify
with
the
name
of
poet
;
his
lampoons
are
called
satires
,
his
turbulence
is
said
to
be
force
,
and
his
phrenzy
fire
.
What
reception
a
poem
may
find
,
which
has
neither
abuse
,
party
,
nor
blank
verse
to
support
it
,
I
cannot
tell
,
nor
am
I
much
solicitous
to
know
.
My
aims
are
right
.
Without
espousing
the
cause
of
any
party
,
I
have
attempted
to
mo
derate
the
rage
of
all
.
I
have
endeavoured
to
shew
,
that
there
may
be
equal
happiness
in
other
states
,
though
differently
governed
from
our
own
;
that
each
state
has
a
particular
principle
of
happiness
,
and
that
this
principle
in
each
state
,
and
in
our
own
in
particular
,
may
be
carried
to
a
mischievous
excess
.
There
are
few
can
judge
,
better
than
yourself
,
how
far
these
positions
are
illustrated
in
this
poem
.
I
AM
,
SIR
,
YOUR
MOST
AFFECTIONATE
BROTHER
,
OLIVER
GOLDSMITH
.