And such emollients as his friends could spare,
Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare.
Blest (rather curst) with hearts that never feel,
Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel,
With mouths made only to grin wide and eat,
And minds that deem derided pain a treat,
With limbs of British oak and nerves of wire,
And wit that puppet-prompters might inspire,
Their sov'reign nostrum is a clumsy joke,
On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke.
But with a soul that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing;
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise
A laugh at its expense, is slender praise;
He that has not usurp'd the name of man,
Does all, and deems too little, all he can,
T'assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part,
And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart;
'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,
Forgery of fancy and a dream of woes;
Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright,
The screws reversed (a task which if he please
God in a moment executes with ease)

Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,
Lost, till he tune them, all their pow'r and use.
Then neither heathy_wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
Nor soft declivities with tufted hills,
Nor view of waters turning busy mills,
Parks in which art preceptress nature weds,
Nor gardens interspersed with flow'ry beds,
Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves,
And waft it to the mourner as he roves,

Can call up life into his faded eye,

That passes all he sees unheeded by:

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,

No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals.
And thou, sad suff'rer under nameless ill
That yields not to the touch of human skill,
Improve the kind occasion, understand

A father's frown, and kiss his chast'ning hand:
To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon,
The purple evening and resplendent moon,
The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night,
Seem drops descending in a show'r of light,

Shine not, or undesired and hater shine,
Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine:
Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,
All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound:

grace,

Then heav'n, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth
Shall seem to start into a second birth;
Nature assuming a more lovely face,
Borrowing a beauty from the works of
Shall be despised and overlook'd no more,
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before,
Impart to things inanimate a voice,
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice;
The sound shall run along the winding vales,
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.

Ye

groves, (the statesman at his desk exclaims Sick of a thousand disappointed aims)

My patrimonial treasure and my pride,
Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide,
Receive me languishing for that repose
The servant of the public never knows.
Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days,
When boyish innocence was all my praise)
Hour after hour delightfully allot
To studies then familiar, since forgot,
And cultivate a taste for ancient song,
Catching its ardour as I mused along;
Nor seldom, as propitious Heav'n might send,
What once I valued and could boast, a friend,
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd

His undissembling virtue to my

breast; Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then, Nor guiltless of corrupting other men,

But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay A fallen empire, hasten its decay.

To the fair haven of my native home,

The wreck of what I was, fatigued I come,
For once I can approve the patriot's voice,

And make the course he recommends, my choice,
We meet at last in one sincere desire,

His wish and mine both prompt me to retire.
'Tis done, he steps into the welcome chaise,
Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays,
That whirl away from bus'ness and debate,
The disencumber'd Atlas of the state.

Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn
First shakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thorn,

Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush
Sits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush,
How fair is freedom?-he was always free-
To carve his rustic name upon a tree,

To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook
To draw th' incautious minnow from the brook,
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view,
His flock the chief concern he ever knew:
She shines but little in his heedless eyes,
The good we never miss, we rarely prize.
But ask the noble drudge in state affairs,
Escaped from office and its constant cares,
What charms he sees in freedom's smile express'd,
In freedom lost so long, now repossess'd,

The tongue whose strains were cogent as commands,
Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands,
Shall own itself a stamm'rer in that cause,
Or plead its silence as its best applause.
He knows indeed that whether dress'd or rude,
Wild without art, or artfully subdued,
Nature in ev'ry form inspires delight,
But never mark'd her with so just a sight.
Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store,

With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er,

Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that spreads

Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads,
Downs that almost escape th' inquiring eye,
That melt and fade into the distant sky,
Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd,
Seem all created since he travell❜d last.
Master of all th' enjoyments he design'd,
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind,
What early philosophic hours he keeps,
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps!
Not sounder he that on the mainmast head,
While morning kindles with a windy red,
Begins a long look-out for distant land,
Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand,
Then, swift descending with a seaman's haste,
Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast.
He chooses company, but not the 'squire's,
Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding

tires;

Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly come
Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home;