on a Horn

The joy of man, the pride of brutes,

Domestic subject for disputes,

Of plenty thou the emblem fair,

Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care!

I saw thee raised to high renown,

Supporting half the British crown;

And often have I seen thee grace

The chaste Diana's infant face;

And whensoe'er you please to shine,

Less useful is her light than thine:

Thy numerous fingers know their way,

And oft in Celia's tresses play.

To place thee in another view,

I'll show the world strange things and true;

What lords and dames of high degree

May justly claim their birth from thee!

The soul of man with spleen you vex;

Of spleen you cure the female sex.

Thee for a gift the courtier sends

With pleasure to his special friends:

He gives, and with a generous pride,

Contrives all means the gift to hide:

Nor oft can the receiver know,

Whether he has the gift or no.

On airy wings you take your flight,

And fly unseen both day and night;

Conceal your form with various tricks;

And few know how or where you fix:

Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast

That they to others give thee most.

Meantime, the wise a question start,

If thou a real being art;

Or but a creature of the brain,

That gives imaginary pain?

But the sly giver better knows thee;

Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.