May prove, though much befide the rules of art,
Beft for the public, and my wifeft part.
And first, let no man charge me that I mean
To clothe in fable every focial scene,
And give good company a face fevere,
As if they met around a father's bier;
For tell fome men, that pleasure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mifpent,
Their wifdom burfts into this fage reply,
Then mirth is fin, and we fhould always cry.
To find the medium afks fome share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter fcene beyond that vale appears,
Whofe glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning fhades,
And, while it shows the land the foul defires,
The language of the land fhe feeks, inspires.
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a facred cure
Of all that was abfurd, profane, impure;
Held within modeft bounds, the tide of fpeech
Purfues the courfe that truth and nature teach;
No longer labours merely to produce
The pomp of found, or tinkle without use:
Where'er it winds, the falutary ftream,
Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev'ry theme,
While all the happy man poffefs'd before,
The gift of nature, or the claffic store,
Is made fubfervient to the grand defign,
For which heav'n form'd the faculty divine.
So, fhould an idiot, while at large he ftrays,
Find the fweet lyre on which an artist plays,
With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes,
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;
But let the wife and well-inftructed hand
Once take the shell beneath his just command,
In gentle founds it seems as it complain'd
Of the rude injuries it late sustain❜d,
'Till, tun'd at length to fome immortal song,
It founds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along.
ftudiis florens ignobilis oti.
VIRG. Geor. Lib. 4.
HACKNEY'D in bufinefs, wearied at that oar
Which thousands, once faft chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or feem to wifh, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of fome rural fhade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a fequefter'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er
And add a fmile to what was fweet before,
He may poffefs the joys he thinks he fees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having liv'd a trifler, die a man.
Thus confcience pleads her caufe within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet fupprefs'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For heav'n's high purposes, and not his own;
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities, humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the flaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where in spite of fin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's power and love.
'Tis well if, look'd for at fo late a day,
In the laft fcene of fuch a fenfeless play,
True wifdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls that have long defpis'd their heav'nly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threefcore years employ'd with ceaseless care
In catching fmoke and feeding upon air,
Converfant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Invet'rate habits choke th' unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tend'reft part,
And, draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed
Their noxious growth, ftarve ev'ry better feed.
Happy, if full of days-but happier far,
If, ere we yet difcern life's ev'ning star,
Sick of the fervice of a world that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
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