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The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete ;

Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour.

Some are so placid and serene, (As Irish bogs are always green,)

They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares,

Unmov'd and without quaking.

Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Their het'rogeneous politics

Without an effervescence,
Like that of salts with lemon juice,
Which does not yet like that produce
A friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strife,
And make a calm of human life;

But friends that chance to differ
On points, which God has left at large,
How freely will they meet and charge!
No combatants are stiffer.

To prove at last my main intent
Needs no expense of argument,
No cutting and contriving ·
Seeking a real friend we seem
T'adopt the chymists' golden dream,
With still less hope of thriving.

Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Some blemish in due time made known,
By trespass or omission;
Sometimes occasion brings to light
Our friend's defect long hid from sight,
And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself and prove your man As circumspectly as you can,

And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust,

That friends should be sincere and just,
That constancy befits them,

Are observations on the case,
That savour much of common-place,
And all the world admits them.

But 't is not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone,

To finish a fine building — The palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget The carving and the gilding.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
And proves by thumps upon your back
How he esteems your merit,

Is such a friend, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,
To pardon or to bear it.

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HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,

And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having liv'd a trifler, die a man,

Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, | At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,

Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heav'n's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates, and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love.
'T is well if, look'd for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of man,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Invet'rate habits choke th' unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate it's tend'rest part,
And, draining it's nutritious pow'rs to feed
Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed.
Happy, if full of days- but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life's ev'ning star,
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds
It's patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from Custom's idiot sway,
To serve the Sov'reign we were born t' obey.
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made!
To trace in Nature's most minute design
The signature and stamp of power divine,
Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease,
Where unassisted sight no beauty sees,
The shapely limb and lubricated joint,
Within the small dimensions of a point,
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done,
Th' invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd,
To whom an atom is an ample field;
To wonder at a thousand insect forms,
These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms,
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share,
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, [size,
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and
More hideous foes than fancy can devise;
With helmet-heads, and dragon-scales adorn'd,
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd,
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth,
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth:
Then with a glance of fancy to survey,
Far as the faculty can stretch a way,
Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command
From urns, that never fail, through ev'ry land;
These like a deluge with impetuous force,
Those winding modestly a silent course;
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales;
Seas, on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails;
The Sun, a world whence other worlds drink light,
The crescent Moon, the diadem of night;
Stars countless, each in his appointed place,
Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space

And with a rapture like his own exclaim,
"These are thy glorious works, thou source of good,
How dimly seen, how faintly understood!
Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,
This universal frame, thus wondrous fair;
Thy pow'r divine, and bounty beyond thought,
Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrought
Absorb'd in that immensity I see,

I shrink abas'd, and yet aspire to thee;
Instruct me, guide me to that heav'nly day,
Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display,
That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine,
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine."
O blest proficiency! surpassing all,
That men erroneously their glory call,
The recompense that arts or arms can yield,
The bar, the senate, or the tented field.
Compar'd with this sublimest life below,
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show?
Thus studied, us'd and consecrated thus,
On Earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us:
Not as the plaything of a froward child,
Fretful unless diverted and beguil'd,
Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires
Of pride, ambition, or impure desires,
But as a scale, by which the soul ascends
From mighty means to more important ends,
Securely, though by steps but rarely trod,
Mounts from inferior beings up to God,
And sees by no fallacious light or dim,
Earth made for man, and man himself for him.
Not that I mean t' approve, or would enforce
A superstitious and monastic course:
Truth is not local, God alike pervades
And fills the world of traffic and the shades,
And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes,
Or scorn'd where business never intervenes,
But 't is not easy with a mind like ours,
Conscious of weakness in it's noblest pow'rs,
And in a world, where, other ills apart,
The roving eye misleads the careless heart,
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray
Wherever freakish Fancy points the way;
To bid the pleadings of Self-love be still,
Resign our own, and seek our Maker's will;
To spread the page of Scripture, and compare
Our conduct with the laws engraven there;
To measure all that passes in the breast,
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
To dive into the secret deeps within,
To spare no passion and no fav'rite sin,
And search the themes, important above all,
Ourselves, and our recov'ry from our fall.
But leisure, silence, and a mind releas'd
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increas'd,
How to secure in some propitious hour,
The point of int'rest, or the post of pow'r,
A soul serene, and equally retir'd
From objects too much dreaded or desir'd,
Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute,
At least are friendly to the great pursuit.

Up'ning the map of God's extensive plan,
We find a little isle this life of man;
Eternity's unknown expanse appears
Circling around and limiting his years.
The busy race examine and explore
Each creek and cavern of the dangʼrous shore,
With care collect what in their eyes excels,
Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells;

hus laden, dream that they are rich and great, And happiest he that groans beneath his weight; he waves o'ertake them in their serious play, And ev'ry hour sweeps multitudes away; They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep, Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. A few forsake the throng; with lifted eyes Ask wealth of Heav'n, and gain a real prize, ruth, wisdom, grace, and peace, like that above, eal'd with his signet, whom they serve and love; corn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wait A kind release from their imperfect state, And, unregretted, are soon snatch'd away 'rom scenes of sorrow into glorious day. Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, Vho seek retirement for it's proper use; The love of change, that lives in ev'ry breast, Genius and temper, and desire of rest, Discordant motives in one centre meet, And each inclines it's vot'ry to retreat. ome minds by nature are averse to noise, nd hate the tumult half the world enjoys, The lure of av'rice, or the pompous prize, hat courts display before ambitious eyes; he fruits that hang on pleasure's flow'ry stem, Whate'er enchants them, are no snares to them. o them the deep recess of dusky groves, r forest, where the deer securely roves, The fall of waters, and the song of birds, nd hills that echo to the distant herds, re luxuries excelling all the glare

he world can boast, and her chief fav'rites share. With eager step, and carelessly array'd, or such a cause the poet seeks the shade, rom all he sees he catches new delight, leas'd Fancy claps her pinions at the sight, he rising or the setting orb of day, he clouds that flit, or slowly float away, ature in all the various shapes she wears, rowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs, he snowy robe her wintry state assumes, ler summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes, ll, all alike transport the glowing bard, uccess in rhyme his glory and reward.

Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose lis bright perfections, at whose word they rose, Text to that pow'r, who form'd thee and sustains, le thou the great inspirer of my strains. till, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand hy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, hat I may catch a fire but rarely known, ive useful light, though I should miss renown, And, poring on thy page, whose ev'ry line Bears proof of an intelligence divine, May feel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, That builds it's glory on it's Maker's praise. Voe to the man, whose wit disclaims it's use, litt'ring in vain, or only to seduce, Who studies nature with a wanton eye, Admires the work, but slips the lesson by; His hours of leisure and recess employs n drawing pictures of forbidden joys, Retires to blazon his own worthless name, Or shoot the careless with a surer aim.

The lover, too, shuns business and alarms,
Tender idolater of absent charms.
Saints offer nothing in their warmest pray'rs,
That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ;
T is consecration of his heart, soul, time,
And ev'ry thought that wanders is a crime.

In sighs he worships his supremely fair, And weeps a sad libation in despair; Adores a creature, and, devout in vain, Wins in return an answer of disdain.

As woodbine weds the plant within her reach,
Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or glossy beech,
In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays
Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays,
But does a mischief while she lends a grace,
Strait'ning it's growth by such a strict embrace;
So love, that clings around the noblest minds,
Forbids th' advancement of the soul he binds ;
The suitor's air, indeed, he soon improves,
And forms it to the taste of her he loves,
Teaches his eyes a language, and no less
Refines his speech, and fashions his address;
But farewell promises of happier fruits,
Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits;
Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break.
His only bliss is sorrow for her sake;
Who will may pant for glory and excel,
Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell!
Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name
May least offend against so pure a flame,
Though sage advice of friends the most sincere
Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear,
And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild,
Can least brook management, however mild,
Yet let a poet (poetry disarms

The fiercest animals with magic charms)
Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood,
And woo and win thee to thy proper good.
Pastoral images and still retreats,
Umbrageous walks and solitary seats,
Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams,
Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day dreams,
Are all enchantments in a case like thine,
Conspire against thy peace with one design,
Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey,
And feed the fire, that wastes thy pow'rs away.
Up-God has form'd thee with a wiser view,
Not to be led in chains, but to subdue;
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst.
Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow
When he design'd a Paradise below,
The richest earthly boon his hands afford,
Deserves to be belov'd, but not ador'd.
Post away swiftly to more active scenes,
Collect the scatter'd truths that study gleans,
Mix with the world, but with its wiser part,
No longer give an image all thine heart;
It's empire is not hers, nor is it thine,
'T is God's just claim, prerogative divine.

Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil,
Gives melancholy up to Nature's care,
And sends the patient into purer air.

Look where he comes-in this embower'd alcove
Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move:
Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow,
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below,
Interpret to the marking eye distress,
Such as it's symptoms can alone express.
That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
Could argue once, could jest or join the song,
Could give advice, could censure or commend,
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
Renounc'd alike it's office and it's sport,
It's brisker and it's graver strains fall short;

Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, And like a summer-brook are past away. This is a sight for Pity to peruse,

Till she resemble faintly what she views,
Till Sympathy contract a kindred pain,
Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain.
This, of all maladies that man infest,
Claims most compassion and receives the least:
Job felt it, when he groan'd beneath the rod
And the barb'd arrows of a frowning God;
And such emollients as his friends could spare,
Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare.
Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel,
Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel,
With mouths made only to grin wide and eat,
And minds, that deem derided pain a treat,
With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire,
And wit that puppet-prompters might inspire,
Their sov'reign nostrum is a clumsy joke,
Or pangs enforc'd with God's severest stroke.
But with a soul, that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise;
He, that has not usurp'd the name of man,
Does all, and deems too little all, he can,
T'assuage the throbbings of a fester'd part,
And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart.
"T is not, as heads that never ache suppose,
Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes;
Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony dispos'd aright;
The screws revers'd, (a task which, if he please,
God in a moment executes with ease,)
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.
Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompens'd the peasant's care,
Nor soft declivities with tufted hills,
Nor view of waters turning busy mills,
Parks in which Art preceptress Nature weds,
Nor gardens interspers'd with flow'ry beds,

Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves,
And waft it to the mourner as he roves,
Can call up life into his faded eye,
That passes all he sees unheeded by ;
No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,
No cure for such, till God who makes them heals.
And thou, sad suffärer under nameless ill,
That yields not to the touch of human skill,
Improve the kind occasion, understand
A Father's frown, and kiss his chast'ning hand.
To thee the dayspring, and the blaze of noon,
The purple ev'ning, and resplendent Moon,
The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night,
Seem drops descending in a show'r of light,
Shine not, or undesir'd and hated shine,
Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine:
Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,
All bliss beside a shadow or a sound:

Ye groves, (the statesman at his desk exclans,
Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,)
My patrimonial treasure and my pride,
Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide,
Receive me languishing for that repose,
The servant of the public never knows.
Ye saw me once (ah those regretted days,
When boyish innocence was all my praise!)
Hour after hour delightfully allot

To studies then familiar, since forgot,
And cultivate a taste for ancient song,
Catching it's ardour as I mus'd along;
Nor seldom, as propitious Heav'n might send,
What once I valu'd and could boast, a friend,
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd
His undissembling virtue to my breast;
Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then,
Nor guiltless of corrupting other men,

But vers'd in arts, that, while they seem to stay
A falling empire, hasten it's decay.

To the fair haven of my native home,
The wreck of what I was, fatigued I come;
For once I can approve the patriot's voice,
And make the course he recommends my choice:
We meet at last in one sincere desire,

His wish and mine both prompt me to retire
'T is done he steps into the welcome chaise,
Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays,
That whirl away from business and debate
The disencumber'd Atlas of the state.
Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of mors
First shakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thors,
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush
Sits linking cherry stones, or platting rush,
How fair is freedom? - he was always free:
To carve his rustic name upon a tree,
To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook
To draw th' incautious minnow from the brook,
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view,
His flock the chief concern he ever knew ;
She shines but little in his heedless eyes,
The good we never miss we rarely prize:
But ask the noble drudge in state affairs,
Escap'd from office and it's constant cares,
What charms he sees in Freedom's smile expres
In Freedom lost so long, now repossess'd;
The tongue, whose strains were cogent as con-
mands,

Rever'd at home, and felt in foreign lands,
Shall own itself a stamm'rer in that cause,
Or plead it's silence as it's best applause.
He knows indeed that whether dress'd or rude,
Wild without art, or artfully subdued,
Nature in ev'ry form inspires delight,
But never mark'd her with so just a sight.
Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store,
With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er,
Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that
spreads

It's cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads,

Then Heav'n, eclips'd so long, and this dull Earth, Downs, that almost escape th' inquiring eye,

Shall seem to start into a second birth;
Nature, assuming a more lovely face,
Borr'wing a beauty from the works of grace,
Shall be despis'd and overlook'd no more,
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before,
Impart to things inanimate a voice,
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice;
The sound shall run along the winding vales,
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.

That melt and fade into the distant sky,
Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd,
Seem all created since he travell'd last.
Master of all th' enjoyments he design'd,
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind,
What early philosophic hours he keeps,
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps!
Not sounder he, that on the mainmast-bead,
While morning kindles with a windy red,

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