To you then, tenants of life's middle state, Securely plac'd between the small and great, Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains Two thirds of all the virtue that remains, Who, wise yourselves, desire your son should learn Your wisdom and your ways-to you I turn. Look round you on a world perversely blind; See what contempt is fall'n on humankind; See wealth abus'd, and dignities misplac'd, Great titles, offices, and trusts disgrac'd, Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old, Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold; See Bedlam's closetted and hand-cuff'd charge Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large; See great commanders making war a trade, Great lawyers, lawyers without study made; Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ Is odious, and their wages all their joy, Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves; See womanhood despis'd, and manhood sham'd With infamy too nauseous to be nam'd, Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien,

Civetted fellows, smelt ere they are seen,

Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung,

Now flush'd with drunk'nness, now with whoredom

pale,

Their breath a sample of last night's regale ;
See volunteers in all the vilest arts,

Men well endow'd, of honourable parts,
Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools;
All these, and more like these, were bred at schools,
And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will,
That though school-bred, the boy be virtuous still;
Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark,
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark:
As here and there a twinkling star descried
Serves but to show how black is all beside.

Now look on him, whose very voice in tone
Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own,
And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red,
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,
And say, My boy, th' unwelcome hour is come,
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,
And trust for safety to a stranger's care;
What character, what turn thou wilt assume
From constant converse with I know not whom ;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.
Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids,
Free too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course;
Lay such a stake upon the losing side,
Merely to gratify so blind a guide?

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,
Condemns th' unfatherly, th' imprudent part.
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tend'rest plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,

Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;
Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule
Of nat❜ral pity, send him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?
And hop'st thou not ('tis ev'ry father's hope)
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need some comfort, to assuage
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means.

;

His heart, now passive, yields to thy command
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place,
But, if thou guard its secret chambers sure
From vicious inmates, and delights impure,
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.

Oh, barb'rous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools--what!-all the schools i' th' land;

Or throw them up to liv'ry-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms ?-
A captious question, sir (and yours is one),
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Appris'd that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.

And though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less.

THE

YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country Clergyman complaining of the disagree. ableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

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 frights 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."

O why are farmers made so coarse,

Or clergy made so fine?

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