CHAPTER XIX.

AGAINST INDOLENCE.

AN EPISTLE.

In frolic's hour, ere férious thought had birth,
There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when
The mufe would take me on her airy wing
And waft to views romantic; there prefent
Some motley vition, fhade, and fun: the cliff
O'er-hanging, sparkling brooks, and ruins grey;
Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of various clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.
Sometimes ambition, brufhing by, would twitch
My mantle, and with winning looks fublime,
Allure to follow. What tho' fleep the track,
Her mountain's top would overpay, when climb'd,
The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the profpects. She could tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antiqué;
But more advis'd to fhun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)

And woo fome thriving heart; her numerous mines
Were open to the fearcher's fkill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart-beat, and flutt'ring pulfe, Sounded irregular marches to be gone→→→

What! pause a moment when ambition calls?
No, the blood gallops to the diftant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame fit ftill..
When fortune gentle, at th' \hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but fomewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd; and what occafion, afk'd,
Of climbing: fhe, already provident,
Had cater'd well, if ftomach could digeft
Her viends, and a palate not too nice:

Unfit, fhe faid, for perilous attempt:

That manly limb requir'd, and finew tough::
She took, and laid me in a vale remote,

Amid the gloomy feene of fir and yew,

On poppy beds, where Morpheus firew'd the ground:: Obfcurity her curtain round me drew,

And Syren floth a dull quietus fungs

Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray

No ftir of pulfe, nor objects to entice

Abroad the fpirits: but the cloyster'd heart
Sits fquat at home, like pagod in a niche

Obfcure, or grandees with nod-watching eye
And folded arms, in prefence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoftan.-Cities, forums, courts,
And prating fanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than ftories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the fick

Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of converse and variety,

The fame trite round, the same stale filent scene:
Such are thy comforts, bleffed folitude!

But innocence is there, but peace all kind,

And fimple quiet with her downy couch,

Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapfe of streams,
And faunter with a book, and warbling muse

In praife of hawthorns-Life's whole bufinefs this!
Is it to bafk i' th' fun? If fo, a fnail
Were happy crawling on a fouthern wall.
Why fits content upon a cottage fill
At eventide, and blefleth the coarse meal
In footy corner? Why fweet flumber wait

Th' hard pallet-bed? Not because from haunt remote

Sequefter'd in a dingle's bushy lap:

'Tis labour makes the peafant's fav'ry fare,

And works out his repofe: for ease must ask

The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.

Oh! liften not to that enchantress Ease With feeming fmile; her palatable cup By standing grows infipid; and beware The bottom, for there's poifon in the lees. What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd! What daily martyrs to her fluggish cause! Lefs ftrict devoir the Rufs and Perfian claim Defpotic; and as fubjects long inur'd To fervile burden grow fupine and tame, So fares it with our sov'reign and her train. What tho' with lure fallaceous she pretend From worldly bondage to fet free, what gain Her votaries? What avails from iron chains Exempt, if rofy fetters bind as fast?

Beftir, and answer your creation's end.

Think we that man, with vigorous pow'r endow'd
And room to ftretch, was destin'd to fit ftill?
Sluggards are nature's rebels, flight her laws,
Nor live up to the terms on which they hold
Their vital leafe. Laborious terms and hard;
But fuch the tenure of our earthly state!
Riches and fame are industry's reward;
The nimble runner courfes fortune down,
And then he banquets, for fhe feeds the bold.

Think what you owe your country, what yourself.
If fplendor charm not, yet avoid the fcorn,
That treads on lowly ftations. Think of fome
Affiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with faucy grandeur looking down:
Think of (Reflection's ftab !) the pitying friend
With shoulder shrugg'd and forry. Think that time
Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:

And if fome fad example, indolent,

To warn and fcare be wanting-think of me,

CHAPTER XX."

ELEGY TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN,
LEAVING THE UNIVERSITY.

ERE yet, ingenuous youth, thy steps retire
From Cam's fmooth margin, and the peaceful vale,
Where science call'd thee to her ftudious quire,
And met thee mufing in her cloyfters pale;
Olet thy friend (and may he boast the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay
A lay like this thy early virtues claim,
And this let voluntary friendship pay..
Yet now, the time arrives, the dangerous time,
When all those virtues; opening now fo, fair,
Transplanted to the world's tempeftuous climes,
Muft learn each paffion's boift'rous, breath to bear.
There if ambition, peftilent and paley

Or luxury fhould taint their vernal glow;
If cold felf-intereft, with her chilling gale,

Should blast th' unfolding blossoms ere they blow; If mimic hues, by heart, or fashion spread,

Their genuine, fimple colouring fhould fupply;
O! with them may thefe laureate honours fade;
And with them (if it can my friendship die.
And do not blame, if, tho' thyfelf infpire,,
Cautious I ftrike the panygeric ftring;
The mufe full of pursues a meteor fire,,

And vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing.
Too actively awake at friendship's voice,

The poet's bofom pours, the fervent strain,
Till fad reflection blames the hafty choice,

And oft invokes oblivion's aid in vain.
Go then, my friend, nor let thy candid breaft

Condemn me, if I check the plaufive ftring;

Go to the wayward world; complete the reft;
Be, what the pureft mufe would wish to fing,
Be ftill thyself; that open path of truth,
Which led thee here, let manhood firm pursue;
Retain the sweet fimplicity of youth,

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still fcorn, with confcious pride, the mask of art;
On vice's front let fearful caution lour,
And teach the diffident, difcreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for power.
So, round thy brow when age's honours fpread,
When death's cold hand unftring's thy Mafon's lyre,
When the green turf lies lightly on his head,

Thy worth fhall some superior bard inspire : He to the ampleft bounds of time's domain,

On rapture's plume shall give thy name to fly; For truft, with rev'rence truft this Sabine ftrain : "The mufe forbids the virtuous man to die."

MASON.

CHAPTER XXI.

ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.

An! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence furround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death, ¡
And all the fad variety of pain :

How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame: how many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man :
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the com.non air, and common use