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
To adopt the chemist's 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 commonplace,
And all the world admits them.

But 'tis 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.

As similarity of mind,

Or something not to be defined,
First fixes our attention;
So manners decent and polite,
The same we practised at first sight,
Must save it from declension.

Some act upon this prudent plan,
“Say little and hear all you can.”
Safe policy, but hateful-

So barren sands imbibe the shower,
But render neither fruit nor flower,
Unpleasant and ungrateful.

The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserved as he ;
No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again ;
I will by no means entertain
A spy on my proceeding.

These samples-for, alas! at last
These are but samples, and a taste
Of evils yet unmention'd

May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 'tis much if we succeed,
However well intention'd.

Pursue the search, and you will find
Good sense and knowledge of mankind
To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast

A principal ingredient.

The noblest Friendship ever shown
The Saviour's history makes known,
Though some have turn'd and turn'd it;

And, whether being crazed or blind,
Or seeking with a biass'd mind,

Have not, it seems, discern'd it.

O Friendship! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below;
To mortify and grieve me,

May I myself at last appear
Unworthy, base, and insincere,
Or may my friend deceive me!

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. [Addressed to Mr Unwin, and written December, 1779. See Letter 39.]

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,

But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog,

Along the miry road,

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates –
He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come-each makes his leg
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do,

The little boy and all ?"

"All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,

Yet, not to give offence or grieve,

Holds up

the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins,

"Come, neighbours, we must wag"The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs, that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear :

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.”

Oh, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
'T would cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that pay.

TO THE REV. MR NEWTON.

[Written in October, 1780, on his return from Ramsgate.]

THAT Ocean you have late survey'd,

Those rocks I too have seen;

But I, afflicted and dismay'd,
You tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steep
Saw stretch'd before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,
No longer such to you.

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke
Upon the dangerous coast,
Hoarsely and ominously spoke
Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past,
And found a peaceful shore;
I tempest toss'd, and wreck'd at last,

Come home to port no more.