From the Charge of Uselessness.

Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp and clear impression of good sense,
And be not costly more than of true worth,
He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.

She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart
Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed,
Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers,
Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care
Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and so at last,

Conclusion.

My share of duties decently fulfill'd,
May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke,
Dismiss me, weary, to a safe retreat

Beneath the turf. that I have often trod.

It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse,

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light task; but soon, to please her more,
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall th' unfinished wreath, and rov'd for fruit
Rov'd far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true,
Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some
To palates that can taste immortal truth;
Insipid else, and sure to be despis❜d.

But all is in His hand whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,
If He regard not, though divine the theme.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime

Conclusion.

And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,

To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation-prosper even mine.

AN

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

JOSEPH HILL, Esq.

DE

1

EAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago— Alas, how time escapes!-'tis even soWith frequent intercourse, and always sweet, And always friendly, we were wont to cheat A tedious hour-and now we never meet! As some grave gentleman in Terence says, ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days) Good lack, we know not what to-morrow bringsStrange fluctuation of all human things! True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart: