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With all the charms of an accomplished taste.
Yet hence, alas! insolvencies, and hence
The impitied victim of ill-judged expense,
From all his wearisome engagements freed,
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed.

Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles,
Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells,
When health required it, would consent to roam,
Else more attached to pleasures found at home;
But now alike, gay widow, virgm, wife,
Ingenious to diversify dull life,
In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys,
Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys,
And all impatient of dry land, agree
With one consent to rush into the sea.—
Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,
Much of the power and majesty of God;
He swathes about the swelling of the deep,
That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep;
Vast as it is, it answers as it flows
The breathings of the lightest air that blows;
Curling and whitening over all the waste,
The rising waves obey the increasing blast,
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores;
Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein,
Then all the world of waters sleeps again.
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,
Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells,
Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells,
Oh, grant a poet leave to recommend
(A poet fond of nature and your friend),
Her slighted works to your admiring view,
Her works must needs excel who fashioned you.
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side,
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains.
To waste unheard the music of his strains,
And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,
That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong,
Mark well the finished plan without a fault,
The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault,
Earth's millions daily fed, a world employed
In gathering plenty, yet to be enjoyed,
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise
Of God, beneficent in all his ways,—
Graced with such wisdom how would beauty shine!
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine.

Anticipated rents and bills unpaid
Force many a shining youth into the shade,
Not to redeem his time, but his estate,

And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.

There hid in loathed obscurity, removed

From pleasures left, but never more beloved,

He just endures, and with a sickly spleen

Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene.

Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme,

Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime,

The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong,

Are musical enough in Thomson's song,

And Cobham's groves and Windsor's green retreats,

When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets:

He likes the country, but in truth must own,

Most likes it when he studies it in town.

Poor Jack—no matter who,—for when I blame
I pity, and must therefore sink the name,—
Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course,
And always, ere he mounted, kissed his horse.
The estate his sires had owned in ancient years
Was quickly distanced,—matched against a peer's.
Tack vanished, was regretted and forgot;
Tis wild good-nature's never-failing lot.
At length, when all at length supposed him dead,
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead,
My lord, alighting at his usual place,
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face.
Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise
He might escape the most observing eyes,
And whistling as if unconcerned and gay,
Curried his nag and looked another way.
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view,
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,
O'erwhelmed at once with wonder, grief, and joy,
He pressed him much to quit his base employ,—
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,
Influence, and power were all at his command.
Peers are not always generous as well-bred;
But Granby was,—meant truly what he said.
Jack bowed, and was obliged ;—confessed 'twas strange
That so retired he should not wish a change,
But knew no medium between guzzling beer
And his old stint, three thousand pounds a year.

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe,
Some seeking happiness not found below,
Some to comply with humour, and a mind
To social scenes by nature disinclined,
Some swayed by fashion, some by deep disgust,
Some self-impoverished, and because they must;
But few that court retirement are aware
Of half the toils they must encounter there.

Lucrative offices are seldom lost
For want of powers proportioned to the post:
Give even a dunce the employment he desires.

And he soon finds the talents it requires;

A business with an income at its heels

Furnishes always oil for its own wheels.

But in his arduous enterprise to close

His active years with indolent repose,

He finds the labours of that state exceed

His utmost faculties, severe indeed.

'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place,

But not to manage leisure with a grace;

Absence of occupation is not rest,

A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.

The veteran steed excused his task at length,

In kmd compassion of his failing strength,

And turned into the park or mead to graze,

Exempt from future service all his days,

There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind,

Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind.

But when his lord would quit the busy road,

To taste a joy like that he has bestowed,

He proves, less happy than his favoured brute,

A life of ease a difficult pursuit.

Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem

As natural as when asleep to dream;

But reveries (for human minds will act),

Specious in show, impossible in fact,

Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought.

Attain not to the dignity of thought;

Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain,

Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign.

Nor such as useless conversation breeds,

Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds.

Whence, and what are we? to what end ordained?

What means the drama by the world sustained?

Business or vain amusement, care, or mirth,

Divide the frail inhabitants of earth.

Is duty a mere sport, or an employ?

Life an intrusted talent, or a toy?

Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture, say,

Cause to provide for a great future day,

When earth's assigned duration at an end,

Man shall be summoned, and the dead attend?

The trumpet,—will it sound? the curtain rise?

And show the august tribunal of the skies,

Where no prevarication shall avail,

Where eloquence and artifice shall fail,

The pride of arrogant distinctions fall,

And conscience and our conduct judge us all?

Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil

To learned cares or philosophic toil,

Though I revere your honourable names,

Your useful labours and important aims,

And hold the world indebted to your aid,

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Enriched with the discoveries ye have made,

Yet let me stand excused, it I esteem

A mind employed on so sublime a theme,

Pushing her bold inquiry to the date

And outline of the present transient state,

And after poising her adventurous wings,

Settling at last upon eternal things,

Far more intelligent, and better taught

The strenuous use of profitable thought,

Than ye when happiest, and enlightened most,

And highest in renown, can justly boast.

A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear
The weight of subjects worthiest of her care,
Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires,
Must change her nature, or in vain retires.
An idler is a watch that wants both hands,
As useless if it goes as when it stands.
Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves,
In which lewd sensualists print out themselves,
Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow,
(With what success let modern manners show ;)
Nor his, who for the bane of thousands born,
Built God1 a church, and laughed his word to scorn,
Skilful alike to seem devout and just,
And stab religion with a sly side-thrust;
Nor those of learned philologists, who chase
A panting syllable through time and space,
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark,
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark;
But such as learning without false pretence,
The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense.
And such as in the zeal of good design,
Strong judgment labouring in the Scripture mine,
All such as manly and great souls produce,
Worthy to live, and of eternal use;
Behold in these what leisure hours demand,
Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand.
Luxury gives the mind a childish cast,
And, while she polishes, perverts the taste;
Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length, one general cry,
Tickle and entertain us, or we die!
The loud demand from year to year the same,
Beggars invention and makes fancy lame;
Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune,
Calls for the kind assistance of a tune,
And novels, (witness every month's review,)
Belie their name, and offer nothing new.
The mind relaxing into needful sport,
Should turn to writers of an abler sort,

1 Deo erexit Voltaire.

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Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style
Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.

Friends, (for I cannot stint as some have done,
Too rigid in my view, that name to one,
Though one, I grant it in the generous breast,
Will stand advanced a step above the rest;
Flowers by that name promiscuously we call,
But one, the rose, the regent of them all;)
Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste,
But chosen with a nice discerning taste,
Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apart
From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,
And (though the world may think the ingredients odd;
The love of virtue, and the fear of God!
Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed,
A temper rustic as the life we lead,
And keep the polish of the manners clean,
As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene.
For solitude, however some may rave,
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave,
A sepulchre in which the living lie,
Where all good qualities grow sick and die.
I praise the Frenchman,1 his remark was shrewd.
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside
That appetite can ask, or wealth provide,
Can save us always from a tedious day,
Or shine the dullness of still life away;
Divine communion carefully enjoyed,
Or sought with energy, must fill the void.
Oh, sacred art, to which alone life owes
Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close,
Scorned in a world indebted to that scorn
For evils daily felt and hardly borne,
Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands
Flowers of rank odour upon thorny lands,
And while experience cautions us in vain,
Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain.
Despondence, self-deserted in her grief,
Lost by abandoning her own relief;
Murmuring and ungrateful discontent,
That scorns afflictions mercifully meant;
Those humours tart as wines upon the fret,
Which idleness and weariness beget;
These and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast,
Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest,
Divine communion chases, as the day
Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prey.
See Judah's promised king, bereft of all,
1 Bruyere.

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