Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.

In every work regard the writer's End, Since none can compass more than they intend:

And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, must the less commit: Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, For not to know some trifles is a praise. Most Critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one loved Folly sacrifice.

Once on a time La Mancha's Knight, they say,

A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage,

As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge so nice,
Produced his Play, and begged the
Knight's advice;
[plot,

Made him observe the subject and the
The manners, passions, unities; what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought
about,

Were but a Combat in the lists left out. "What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Knight.

Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. "Not so by Heaven," he answers in a rage, 'Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage.

So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain." Thus Critics, of less judgment than

caprice,

From the dear man unwilling she must

sever,

Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent,

She sighed not that they stayed, but that she went.

She went, to plain work, and to purling brooks,

Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:

She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;

To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea;
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at
noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way
to heaven.

Some squire, perhaps, you take delight

to rack,

Whose game is whisk, whose treat a toast in sack

Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, "No words!'

Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable,

Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;

Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests

are coarse,

And loves you best of all things-but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade: In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass th' imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and gartered knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;

Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time

(Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme),

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, -I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see,
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

A stranger's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate and not to praise.
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use designed,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown: No traveller ever reached that blest abode Who found not thorns and briers in his road.

The world may dance along the flowery plain, [strain; Cheered as they go by many a sprightly Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread; Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend,

Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But He who knew what human hearts would prove,

How slow to learn the dictates of His love,

*A Mrs. Billacoys.

That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls His grace designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of
tears!"

O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!
O salutary streams that murmur there!
These flowing from the Fount of Grace
above,
[love.
Those breathed from lips of everlasting
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing

joys,

An envious world will interpose its frown, To mar delights superior to its own, And many a pang experienced still within Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin; But ills of every shape and every name, Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim: [the breast And every moment's calm that soothes Is given in earnest of eternal rest. Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock and in a boundless waste! [pear, No shepherds' tents within thy view apBut the chief Shepherd even there is near: Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain

Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine. So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,

And drought on all the drooping herbs around.