The gods to curfe poor Demea heard his vow,
And business now no more contracts his brow:
Nor real cares, 'tis true, perplex his breast,
But thousand fancied ills his
peace moleft: The slightest trifles folid forrows prove,
And the long ling'ring wheel of life scarce feems to move.
Useless in bufinefs yet unfit for ease,
Nor skill'd to please mankind, nor form'd to please,
Such fpurious animals of worthless race
Live but the publick burthen and disgrace :
Like mean attendants on life's ftage are seen,
Drawn forth to fill, but not conduct the scene.
The mind not taught to think, no useful store
To fix reflection, dreads the vacant hour.
Turn'd on its felf its num'rous wants are feen,
And all the mighty void that lies within.
Yet cannot wisdom ftamp our joys complete;
'Tis confcious virtue crowns the bleft retreat.
Who feels not that, the private path muft fhun,
And fly to publick view t' escape his own;
In life's gay scenes uneafy thoughts suppress,
And lull each anxious care in dreams of peace.
'Midft foreign objects not employ'd to roam,
Thought, fadly active, ftill corrodes at home:
A serious moment breaks the false repose,
And guilt in all its naked horror shows.
He who wou'd know retirement's joy refin'd,
The fair recefs must feek with cheerful mind,
No Cynick's pride, no bigot's heated brain,
No fruftrate hope, nor love's fantastick pain,
With him must enter the fequefter'd cell,
Who means with pleasing folitude to dwell;
But equal paffions let his bofom rule,
A judgment candid, and a temper cool,
Enlarg'd with knowledge, and in confcience clear,
Above life's empty hopes, and death's vain fear.
Such he must be who greatly lives alone;
Such Portio is, in crowded fcenes unknown.
For publick life with every talent born,
Portio far off retires with decent scorn;
Tho' without bufinefs, never unemploy'd,
And life, as more at leifure, more enjoy'd:
For who like him can various science tafte,
His mind fhall never want an endless feast.
In his bleft ev'ning walk may'ft thou, may I,
Oft friendly join in fweet fociety;
Our lives like his in one fmooth current flow,
Nor fwell'd with tempeft, nor too calmly flow,
Whilft he like some great fage of Rome or Greece,
Shall calm each rifing doubt and speak us peace,
Correct each thought, each wayward wish controul,
And ftamp with every virtue all the foul.
Ah! how unlike is Umbria's gloomy scene,
Eftrang'd from all the cheerful ways of men!
There fuperftition works her baneful pow'r,
And darkens all the melancholy hour.
Unnumber'd fears corrode and haunt his breast,
With all that whim or ign'rance can fuggeft.
In vain for him kind nature pours her sweets;
The vifionary faint no joy admits,
But feeks with pious fpleen fantastick woes,
And for heav'n's fake heav'n's offer'd good foregoes.
Whate'er's our choice we ftill with pride prefer,
And all who deviate, vainly think must err :
Clodio in books and abstract notions loft,
Sees none but knaves and fools in honor's post,
Whilft Syphax, fond on fortune's fea to fail,
And boldly drive before the flatt'ring gale,
(Forward her dang'rous ocean to explore,)
Condemns as cowards those who make the shore.
Not fo my friend impartial,-man he views
Useful in what he fhuns as what pursues ;
Sees different turns to gen'ral good conspire,
The hero's paffion and the poet's fire,
Each figure plac'd in nature's wife defign,
With true proportion and exacteft line:
Sees lights and fhades unite in due degree,
And form the whole with fairest symmetry.
ILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple ev'ning, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of bufy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet fings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the foreft with her tale;
Come with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy fifter mufe;
Now while Phoebus riding high
Gives luftre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my fong,
Draw the landskip bright and strong;
Grongar, in whofe mofly cells
Sweetly-mufing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose filent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the even still,
At the fountain of a rill,
With my hand beneath my head;
And ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead, and over wood,
From house to houfe, from hill to hill,
'Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And viftoes shooting beams of day:
Wider and wider spreads the vale;
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rife :
Still the profpect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads,
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.
Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landskip lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene,
But the gay, the open fcene
Does the face of nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.
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