That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain:
But, if a sweeter voice, and one design'd

A blessing to my country and mankind,

Reclaim the wand'ring thousands, and bring home
A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam,
Then place it once again between my knees;
The sound of truth will then be sure to please:
And truth alone, where'er my life be cast,
In scenes of plenty or the pining waste,

Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last.

HOPE.

doceas iter et sacra ostia pandas.

VIRG. En. 6.

ASK what is human life-the

sage replies,

With disappointment low'ring in his eyes,
A painful passage o'er a restless flood,
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good,
A scene of fancied bliss and heart-felt care,
Closing at last in darkness and despair.

The Poor-Riches-Vicissitudes of Fortune.

The poor, inur'd to drudg'ry and distress,
Act without aim, think little, and feel less,
And no where, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes,
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means.
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand,
As fortune, vice, or folly, may command.
As in a dance the pair that take the lead
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed,
So shifting and so various is the plan

By which Heav'n rules the mixt affairs of man :
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crow'd,

The rich

grow poor, the poor become

purse-proud;

Bus'ness is labour, and, man's weakness such,
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much,
The very sense of it foregoes its use,
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse.

Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore,

Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs restore; Our years, a fruitless race without a prize,

Too many, yet too few to make us wise.

But Nature is a always gay,

Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, Lothario cries, What philosophic stuff–— Oh, querulous and weak !—whose useless brain Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain ; Whose eye, reverted, weeps o'er all the past, Whose prospect shows thee a disheart'ning waste; Would age in thee resign his wintry reign, And youth invigorate that frame again, Renew'd desire would grace with other speech Joys always priz'd-when plac'd within our reach. For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, See nature, gay as when she first began, With smiles alluring her admirer man; She spreads the morning over eastern hills; Earth glitters with the drops the night distils; The sun obedient, at her call appears

To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears; Banks cloth'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with sprightly sounds,

The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds,

and spreads her Blessings liberally before us.

Streams edg'd with osiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd;
From the blue rim where skies and mountains meet,
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,

Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise,
Or pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes,

All speak one language, all with one sweet voice,
Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice!

Man feels the spur of passions and desires,
And she gives largely more than he requires;

Not that, his hours devoted all to care,

Hollow-ey'd abstinence, and lean despair,

The wretch may pine while to his smell, taste, sight, She holds a paradise of rich delight;

But gently to rebuke his awkward fear,

prove

To
To banish hesitation, and proclaim

that what she gives she gives sincere,

His happiness, her dear, her only aim.

'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream,

That heav'n's intentions are not what they seem,