Like fome lone Chartreux ftands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and fafts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmoakless tow'rs furvey,
And turns th' unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curs'd the fav'd candle, and unop'ning door; While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate, 195 Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not fo his Son, he mark'd this overfight,
And then miftook reverfe of wrong
(For what to fhun will no great knowledge need, But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine !
Yet no mean motive this profufion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's caufe;
VER. 200. Here I found two lines in the Poet's MS.
“ Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise,
"More go to ruin fortunes than to raise.
which, as they feemed to be neceffary to do justice to the general Character going to be defcribed, I advifed him to infert in their place.
'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The Woods recede around the naked feat,
The fylvans groan-no matter-for the Fleet: 210
Next goes his Wool-to clothe our valiant bands,
Laft, for his Country's love, he fells his Lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And fhall not Britain now reward his toils,
215
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her Spoils ?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless Country leaves him to her Laws.
The Senfe to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursu'd,
Not funk by floth, nor rais'd by fervitude;
To balance Fortune by a juft expence,
Join with Economy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health; 225 Oh teach us, BATHURST! yet unfpoil'd by wealth!
After 218. in the MS.
Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their Lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty mifapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd awhile and dy'd;
There Providence once more fhall shift the scene,
And fhewing H-Y, teach the golden mean.
That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self love.
B. To Worth or Want well-weigh'd, be Bounty giv'n,
And eafe, or emulate, the care of Heav'n;
(Whofe measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and juftify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in just proportion us'd :
In heaps, like Ambergrife, a ftink it lies,
But well-difpers'd, is Incenfe to the Skies.
P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats?
The Wretch that trufts them, and the Rogue that
cheats.
Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatt'rer, or Buffoon?
Whofe table, Wit, or modeft Merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a Gamefter, Pimp, or Play'r?
Who copies Your's, or OXFORD's better part,
To ease the opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart?
VER. 243. OXFORD's better part,] Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford. The fon of Robert, created Earl of Oxford, and Earl
After 226. in the MS.
That fecret rare, with affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n loft, yet B-y ne'er could find;
Still mifs'd by Vice, and scarce by Virtue hit,
By G's goodness, or by S-'s wit.
Where-e'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean! 246
There, English Bounty yet a-while may ftand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praifes why should Lords engross?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross: 250
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow;
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artlefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain?
Mortimer by Queen Anne. This nobleman died regretted by all men of letters, great numbers of whom had experienced his benefits. He left behind him one of the most noble Libraries in Europe.
VER. 250. The MAN of Ross:] The perfon here celebrated, who with a small Estate actually performed all these good works, and whofe true name was almost loft (partly by the title of the Man of Rofs given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without fo much as an infcription) was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 9c, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Rofs in Herefordfhire.
After 250. in the MS.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!
Whose Caufe-way parts the vale with fhady rows? Whofe Seats the weary Traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of ftate,
Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate: 266
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance; enter but his door,
Balk'd are the Courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing Quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wish, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand fupply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity ?
P. Of Debts, and Taxes, Wife and Children clear, This man poffeft---five hundred pounds a year. 280 Blush, Grandeur, blufh! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
VER. 281. Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze! etc.] In this fublime apoftrophe, they are not bid to blush because outftript in virtue, for no fuch contention is
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