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Such rare exceptions, fhining in the dark,
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark:
As here and there a twinkling ftar defcried
Serves but to fhow how black is all befide.
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone
Juft echoes thine, whose features are thine own,
And ftroke his polished cheek of pureft red,
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,
And say, My boy, the unwelcome hour is come,
When thou, tranfplanted from thy genial home,
Muft find a colder foil and bleaker air,
And truft for fafety to a stranger's care;

What character, what turn thou wilt affume
From conftant converfe with I know not whom;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.
Can'ft thou, the tear juft trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful risque foreseen forbids;
Free too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the fway of cuftom warp thy course;
Lay fuch a ftake upon the lofing fide,
Merely to gratify fo blind a guide?

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,
Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part.

Thou wouldeft not, deaf to Nature's tendereft plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,

Nor fay, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of afps, or quickfands in his way;
Then, only governed by the felf-fame rule
Of natural pity, fend him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone ?
And hopeft thou not ('tis every father's hope)
That, fince thy ftrength muft with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need fome comfort to affuage
Health's laft farewell, a ftaff of thine old age,
That then, in recompenfe of all thy cares,
Thy child shall show refpect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,

To compass that good end, forecaft the means.
His heart, now paffive, yields to thy command;
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou defert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and ufurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its facred chambers fure
From vicious inmates and delights impure,

Either his gratitude shall hold him faft,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can fay

But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet thall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he flight thee, thou haft done thy part.

Oh barbarous! wouldeft thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the fchools-what!-all the Ichools i' th'

land;

Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into fhops and auction rooms?
A captious queftion, fir, (and your's is one)
Deferves an answer fimilar, or none.
Woulder thou, poffeffer of a flock, employ
(Apprized that he is fuch) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to fleep, and let them run aftray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and fee

A fight not much unlike my fimile.
From education, as the leading caufe,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their caft,
Extravagant or fober, loofe or chaste.

And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This Building to be Let,

Unless the world were all prepared to embrace
A plan well worthy to fupply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged lefs.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

I.

THE fwallows in their torpid ftate
Compose their useless wing,

And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.

II.

The keeneft froft that binds the stream,

The wildeft wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor feared by them,

Secure of their repofe.

III.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy fcene furveys;
With present ills his heart muft ake,
And pant for brighter days.

IV.

Old winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn;

But lovely fpring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

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