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.