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.