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And lovely thence the prospects. She cou'd tell
grew, whence many a wreath antique ;
But more advis'd to shun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit ?)
And woo some thriving art : her numerous mines
Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.
Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and Autt'ring pulse
Sounded irregular marches to be gone-
What, pause a moment when Ambition calls ?
No, the blood gallops to the diftant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame fit ftill.
When Fortune gentle, at th' hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but somewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd ; and what occafion, ask'd,
Of climbing ? She, already provident,
Had cater'd well, if stomach cou'd digest
Her viands, and a palate not too nice:
Unfit, she said, for perilous attempts ;
That manly limb requir'd and finew tough :
She took, and laid me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew,
On poppy beds, where Morpheus strew'd the ground :
Obscurity her curtain round me drew,
And Syren Sloth a dull quietus sung.
Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,
No ftir of pulse, nor objects to entice
Abroad the fpirits : but the cloyster'd heart
Sits squat at home, like pagod in a niche
Obscure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoftan.-Cities, forums, courts,
And prating sanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than stories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the fick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again,
Instead of converse and variety,
The same trite round, the same stale filent scene :
Such are thy comforts, blessed Solitude !
But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And simple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapfe of streams,
And saunter with a book, and warbling Muse
In praise of hawthorns.Life's whole business this !
Is it to bask i' th' fun? if so a snail
Were happy crawling on a southern wall.
Why fits content upon a cottage fill
At eventide, and blesseth the coarse meal
In footy corner ? why sweet Number wait
Th' hard pallet ? Not because from haunt remote
Sequefter'd in a dingle's bushy lap :
'Tis labour makes the peasant's fav'ry fare,
And works out his repose : for Ease must ask
The leave of Diligence to be enjoy'd.
Oh ! listen not to that enchantress Ease
With seeming smile ; her palatable cup
By standing grows infipid ; and beware
The bottom, for there's poison in the lees.
What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd!
What daily martyrs to her sluggish cause !
Less strict devoir the Russ and Persian claim
Despotic ; and as subjects long inur'd
To servile burthen grow fupine and tame,
So fares it with our sov'reign and her train.
What tho' with lure fallacious she pretend
From worldly bondage to set free, what gain
Her votaries ? What avails from iron chains
Exempt, if rosy fetters bind as fast ?
Bestir, an answer
Think we that man, with vig’rous pow'r endow'd
And room to stretch, was destin’d to fit still?
Sluggards are Nature's rebels, flight her laws,
Nor live up to the terms on which they hold
Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard ;
But such the tenure of our earthly state !
Riches and fame are Industry's reward;
The nimble runner courses Fortune down,
And then he banquets, for the feeds the bold.
Think what you owe your country, what yourfelf.
If fplendor charm not, yet avoid the scorn,
That treads on lowly stations. Think of some
Affiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with faucy grandeur looking down:
Think of (Reflection's ftab !) the pitying friend
With shoulder shrugg'd and forry. Think that Time
Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd;
And if some fad example, indolent,
To warn and scare be wanting—think of me.
CH A P. XX,
A YOUNG NOBLEMAN
RE yet, ingenuous Youth, thy steps retire
From Cam's smooth margin, and the peaceful vale, Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,
And met thee muling in her cloysters pale ; 0 ! let thy friend (and may he boast the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay!
A lay like this thy early Virtues claim,
And this let voluntary Friendship pay.
Yet know, the time arrives, the dangerous time,
When all those Virtues, opening now so fair,
Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime,
Must learn each Passion's boift'rous breath to bear.
There if Ambition, peftilent and pale,
Or luxury should taint their vernal glow;
If cold Self-interest, with her chilling gale,
Should blast th' unfolding blossoms ere they blow;
Ifmimic hues, by Art, or Fashion spread,
Their genuine, simple colouring should fupply ;
O! with them may these laureate honours fade ;
And with them (if it can) my friendship die.
And do not blame, if, tho' thyself inspire,
Cautious I strike the panegyric ftring ;
The Muse full oft pursues a meteor fire,
And vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing.
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bofom pours the fervent strain,
Till fid refle&tion blames the hafty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Go then, my Friend, nor let thy candid breast
Condemn me, if I check the plaufive string ;
Go to the wayward world ; compleat the rest ;
Be, what the purest Mufe wou'd wish to fing.
Be still thyself ; that open path of Truth,
Which led thee here, let Manhood firm pursue ;
Retain the sweet fimplicity of Youth,
And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do,
Still fcorn, with conscious pride, the mask of Art ;
On Vice's front let fearful Caution lour,
nd teach the diffident, discreeter part
Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for power.
So, round thy brow when age's honours spread,
When death's cold hand unftrings thy Mason's lyré,
When the green turf lies lightly on his head,
Thy worth shall some superior bard inspire :
He to the amplest bounds of Time's domain,
On Rapture's plume shall give thy Name to fly ;
For trust, with rev'rence trust this Sabine strain :
56 The Mufe forbids the virtuous Man to die."
H little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain :
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame : how many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man :
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs : how
drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery ; fore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerless poverty; how many shake