To whirl the faulchion, and direct the blow;
To ward the ftroke, or bear upon the foe.
Early in hardships through the woods they fly,
Nor feel the piercing froft, or wintry sky;
Some prowling wolf or foamy boar to meet,
And ftretch the panting favage at their feet:
Inur'd by this, they seek a nobler war,
And show an honest pride in ev'ry scar;
With joy the danger and the blood partake,
Whilft ev'ry wound is for their country's fake.
But you, foft warriors, forc'd into the field,
Or faintly strike, or impotently yield;
For well this univerfal truth you know,
Who fights for tyrants is his country's foe.
I envy not your arts, the Roman schools,
Improv'd, perhaps, but to inflave your fouls.
May you to ftone, or nerves or beauty give,
And teach the foft'ning marble how to live;
May you the paflions in your colours trace,
And work up every piece with every gracę ;
In airs and attitudes be wondrous wife,
And know the arts to pleafe, or to furprize;
In mufick's fofteft found confume the day,
Sounds that would melt the warrior's foul away:
Vain efforts thefe, an honeft fame to raise ;
Your painters, and your eunuchs, be your praise :
Grant us more real goods, you heav'nly powers!
Virtue, and arms, and liberty be ours,
Weak are your offers to the free and brave;
No bribe can purchase me to be a slave.
Hear me, ye rocks, ye mountains, and ye plains,
The happy bounds of our Helvetian swains!
In thee, my country, will I fix my
Nor envy the wretch, that would be great :
My life and arms I dedicate to thee;
For, know, it is my int'reft to be free.
HAT, fir, a month, and not one line afford?
'Tis well :---how finely fome folk keep their word!
I own my promife.---But to fteal an hour,
'Midft all this hurry---'tis not in my pow'r,
Where life each day does one fix'd order keep,
Succeffive journies, wearinefs and fleep.
Or if our scheme fome interval allows,
Some hours defign'd for thought and for repofe;
Soon as the scatter'd images begin
In the mind to rally---company comes in:
Reafon, adieu! there's no more room to think;
For all the day behind is noise and drink.
Thus life rolls on, but not without regret ;
Whene'er at morning, in some cool retreat,
I walk alone: 'tis then in thought I view
Some fage of old; 'tis then I think of you:
Whose breast no tyrant paffions ever seize,
No pulfe that riots, blood that disobeys;
Who follow but where judgment points the way,
And whom too busy sense ne'er led aftray.
Not that you joys with moderation fhun,
You taste all pleasures, but indulge in none.
Fir'd by this image, I refolve anew:
"Tis reafon calls, and peace and joy's in view.
How blefs'd a change! a long adieu to sense:
O fhield me, fapience! virtue's reign commence!
Alas, how short a reign ?---the walk is o'er,
The dinner waits, and friends fome half a score:
At first to virtue firm, the glass I fly;
"Till fome fly fot,---" Not drink the family!"
Thus gratitude is made to plead for fin;
My trait'rous breast a party forms within:
And inclination brib'd, we never want
Excufe-.-" "Tis hot, and walking makes one faint."
Now fenfe gets strength; my bright refolves decay,
Like ftars that melt at the approach of day:
Thought dies, and ev'n, at last, your image fades away.
My head grows warm; all reafon I defpife:
"To-day be happy, and to-morrow wife!"
Betray'd fo oft, I'm half perfuaded now,
Surely to fail, the first step is to vow.
The country lately, 'twas my wish: oh there!
Gardens, diverfions, friends, relations, air:
For London now, dear London, how I burn!
I must be happy, fure, when I return.
Whoever hopes true happiness to see,
Hopes for what never was, nor e'er will be:
The nearest ease, fince we must fuffer ftill,
Are they, who dare be patient under ill.
Whilom a fool faw where a fiddle lay;
And after pouring round it, ftrove to play:
Above, below, across, all ways he tries;
He tries in vain, 'tis difcord all and noise:
Fretting he threw it by: then thus the lout;
"There's mufick in it, could I fetch it out."
If life does not its harmony impart,
We want not inftruments, but have not art.
'Tis endless to defer our hopes of ease,
Till croffes end, and difappointments ceafe.
The fage is happy, not that all goes right,
His cattle feel no rot, his corn no blight;
The mind for eafe is fitted to the wife,
Not fo the fool's ;-'tis here the difference lies:
Their profpect is the fame, but various are their eyes.
NEW people know it, yet, dear fir, 'tis true,
Man should have somewhat evermore to do.
Hard labour's tedious, every one must own;
But furely better such by far, than none;
The perfect drone, the quite impertinent,
Whose life at nothing aims, but--to be spent ;
Such heaven vifits for fome mighty ill :
'Tis fure the hardest labour, to fit ftill.
Hence that unhappy tribe who nought pursue:
Who fin, for want of something else to do.
Sir John is blefs'd with riches, honour, love
And to be bless'd indeed, needs only move.
For want of this, with pain he lives away,
A lump of hardly-animated clay:
Dull till his double bottle does him right:
He's eafy juft at twelve o'clock at night.
Thus for one sparkling hour alone he's bleft;
While spleen and head-ach seize on all the reft.
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