Him, even the dissolute admir'd; for he
A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could instruct. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind.
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falsely-smiling Fate has curs’d with means
To dislipate their days in quest of joy.
Our aim is happiness ; 'tis your's, 'tis mine,
He said, 'tis the pursuit of all that live-;
Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who thro' the flow'ry paths of faunt'ring Joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us ftill, but shifts as we pursue.
For, not to name the pains that Pleasure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless Fate
Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.
Were these exhaustless, Nature would
grow sick,
And cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
'That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let Nature rest : Be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy even in vain,
Rather than teaze her fated appetites.
Who never fasts, no banquet e'er enjoys ;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.
Let Nature reft ; And when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge ; but fhun satiety.
'Tis not for mortals always to be bleft:
But
But him the least the dull or painful hours
Of life oppress, whom sober fenfe conducts,
And Virtue thro’ this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and Sense I mean not to disjoin :
Virtue and Sense are one ; and, trust me, he
Who has not virtue is not truly wise.
Virtue (for mere Good-nature is a fool)
Is sense and spirit, with humanity :
'Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;
'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;.
But at his heart the most undaunted son
Of Fortune dreads its name and awful charms,
To noblest uses this determines wealth :
This is the solid pomp of prosperous days ;
The peace and shelter of adversity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame.
On this foundation, which the secret shock
Defies of Envy and all sapping Time.
The gaudy gloss of Fortune only strikes
The vulgar eye: The suff'rage of the wise,
The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd.
By sense alone, and dignity of mind.
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the foul,
Is the best gift of heav'n: a happiness
That even above the smiles and frowns of Fate
Exalts
great
Nature's favourites :
That ne'er encumbers, nor to baser hands
Can be transferr'd : it is the only good
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own.
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;
Or dealt by chance, to fhield a lucky knave,
Or throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.
But for one end, one much neglected use,
Are riches worth your care: for Nature's wants
Are few, and without opulence supplied.
This noble end is, to produce the Soul:
To shew the virtues in the fairelt light;
To make Humanity the Minister
Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast
That generous luxury the gods enjoy.
Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage
Sometimes declaim'd. Of Right and Wrong he taught
Truths as refin'd as ever Athen's heard;
And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd.
ARMSTRONG.
AN EPIST L E.
IN Frolic's hour, ere serious Thought had birth,
There was a time, my dear CORNWALLIS! when
The Muse would take me on her airy wing,
! And waft to views romantic ; there present
Some motley vifion, made and fun : the cliff
O'er hanging, sparkling brooks, and ruins grey :
Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.
Sometimes Ambition, bruthing by, would twitch
My mantle, and, with winning look fublime,
Allure to follow. What tho' fteep the track,
Her mountain's
top
would
overpay, when climb'd, The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the prospects. She could tell
Where laureis grew, whence many a wreath antique ;:
But more advis’d to fhun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)
And woo some thriving art; her numerous mines
Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.
Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulle
Sounded irregular marches to be gonem
What! pause a moment when Ambition calls !
No, the blood gallops to the distant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame fit ftill.,
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but somewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd ; and what occafion, alk'd,
Of climbing : She already provident,
Had cater'd well, if ftomach could digest
Her viands, and a palate not too nice :
Unfit, she faid, for perilous attempt ;
That manly limb requir'd, and finew tough,
She took, and laid me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy scene of fr and yew,
On poppy beds, where Morpheus strew'd the ground:
Obscurity her curtain round me drew;
And Syren Sloth a dull quietus fung.
Sithence no fairy lights, no quick’ning ray,
No ftir of pulse, nor objects to entice
Abroad the spirits : but the cloyster'd heart
Sits squat at home, like pagod in a niche
Obscure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoftati. Cities, forums, courts,
And prating fanhedrims and drumming wars,
Affect
Affect no more than stories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the fick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of converse and variety,
The same trite round, the same ftale Glent scene :
Such are thy comforts, blefied Solitude !-
But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And fimple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams,
And faunter with a book, and warbling Muse
In praise of hawthorns-Life's whole business this !
Is it to balk i' th’ fun? if so, a snail
Were happy crawling on a southern wall.
Why fits Content upon a coitage-fill
At eventide, and blefreth the coarse meal
In footy corner ? why sweet sumber wait
Th' hard pallet ? not because from haunt remote
Sequefter’d in a dingle's bushy lap:
'Tis labour makes the peasant's fav'ry fare,
And works out his repose : for Ease muft ak
The leave of Diligence to be enjoy'd.
Oh! listen not to that enchantress Ease
With seeming smile; her palatable cup
By Nanding grows insipid; and beware
The bottom, for there's poison in the lees.
What health impair’d, and crowds inactive maim'd!
What daily martyrs to her sluggish cause !
Less strict devoir the Russ and Persian claim
Despotic; and as subjects long inur'd
To servile burthen, grow supine and tame,
So fares it with our sov'reign and her train.
What tho' with lure fallacious the pretend
From worldly bondage to fet free, what gain
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