True to any heart, I feldom roam,
Because I find my joys at home:
For foreign vifits then begin
When the man feels a void within.
But though from towns and crowds I fly, c
No humoùrift, nor Cynic, I.
Amidst fequefter'd fhades I prize!
The friendships of the good and wife,
Bid Virtue and her fons attend,
Virtue will tell thee I'm her friend;
Tell thee, I'm faithful, conftant, kind,
And meek, and lowly, and refign'd;,.
Will fay, there's no diftinction known
Betwixt her household and my own.
Author. If thefe the friendships you pursue,
Your friends, I fear, are very few.
So little company you fay,
Yet fond of home from day to day?
How do you fhun Detraction's rod?
I doubt your neighbours think you odd!
Content. I commune with my felf at night,
And ask my heart if all be right:
If "Right," replies my faithful breast,
I fmile, and clofe my eyes to reft.
Author. You feem regardless of the town: Pray, Sir, how ftand you with the gown? Content. The clergy fay they love me well, Whether they do, they beft can tell:.
They paint me modeft, friendly, wife,
And always praise me to the skies;
But if conviction's at the heart,
Why not a correfpondent part?
Nor shall the learned tongue prevail,
If actions preach a diff'rent tale?ation de Who'll feek my door, or grace my walls, When neither dean nor prelate calls?
With those my friendships muft obtain, Who prize their duty more than gain; Soft flow the hours whene'er we meet, And confcious virtue is our treat; Our harmless breasts no envy know, And hence we fear no fecret foe; Our walks ambition ne'er attends, And hence we ask no powerful friends; We wish the best to church and state, But leave the fteerage to the great; Careless who rifes, or who falls, And never dream of vacant stalls; Much less, by pride or int'rest drawn, Sigh for the mitre and the lawn. Obferve the fecrets of my art, I'll fundamental truths impart : And if you'll my advice purfue, I'll quit my hut, and dwell with you. The paffions are a num❜rous crowd, Imperious, poffitive, and loud;
Curb thefe licentious fons of strife,
Hence chiedy rife the ftorms of life:
If they grow mutinous and rave,
They are thy mafters, thou their flave.
Regard the world with cautious eye,
Nor raife your expectation high.
See that the balanc'd fcales be fuch,
You neither fear nor hope too much.
For difappointment's not the thing.
'Tis pride and paffion point the fting.
Life is a fea, where storms must rife,
'Tis folly talks of cloudless skies:
He who contracts his felling fail,
Eludes the fury of the gale.
Be ftill, nor anxious thoughts employ,
Diftruft, embitters prefent joy:
On God for all events depend;
You cannot want, when God's your friend.
Weigh well your part, and do your best;
Leave to your Maker all the reft.
The Hand which form'd thee in the womb,
Guides from the cradle to the tomb.
Can the fond mother flight her boy?
Can the forget her prattling joy?
Say then fhall fov'reign Love defert
The humble and the honeft heart?
Heav'n may not grant thee all thy mind;
Yet fay not thou that Heav'n's unkind."
God is alike, both good and wife,
In what he grants and what denies :
Perhaps, what Goodness gives to-day,
To-morrow Goodness takes away.
You fay, that troubles intervene,
That forrows darken half the foene.
True-and this confequence you fee,
The world was ne'er defign'd for thee:
You're like a paffenger below,
That stays perhaps a night or fo;
But ftill his native country lies
Beyond the bound'ries of the skies.
Of Heav'n afk virtue, wifdom, health,
But never let thy pray'r be wealth:
If food be thine, (though little gold)
And raiment to repel the cold;
Such as may nature's wants fuffice,
Not what from pride and folly rife;
If foft the motions of thy foul,
You can't in reafon wifh for more:
And if kind Heav'n this comfort brings,
'Tis more than Heav'n bestows on kings.
He fpake---the airy spectre flies,
And ftrait the fweet illufion dies.
The vifion, at the early dawn,
Confign'd me to the thoughtful morn;
To all the cares of waking clay,
And inconfiftent dreams of day.
FROM POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN.
H happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate’er thy name;
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wife;
Plant of celeftial feed! if dropt below,
Say in what mortal foil thou deign't to grow?
Fair op'ning to fome court's propitious shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnaffian laurels yield,
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the foil.
Fix'd to no fpot is happiness fincere,
'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;
'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
And, fled from monarchs, St. John, dwells with thee. Afk of the learn'd the way: the learn'd are blind; This bids to ferve, and that to fhun, mankind.
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