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.