One heav'n-infpir'd invents a frock, or hood:
The taylor now cuts out, and men grow good.
Another quits his ftockings, breeches, shirt,
Because he fancies virtue dwells with dirt:
While all concur to take away the stress
From weightier points, and lay it on the less.
Anxious each paltry relique to preferve
Of him, whofe hungry friends they leave to starve,
Harrass'd by watchings, abstinence, and chains;
Strangers to joys, familiar grown with pains;
To all the means of virtue they attend
With ftrictest care, and only miss the end.
Can fcripture teach us, or can fenfe perfuade,
That man for fuch employments e'er was made?
Far be that thought! But let us now relate
A character as oppofite, as great,
In him, who living gave to Athens fame,
And, by his death, immortaliz'd her shame.
Great fcourge of fophifts! he from heaven brought down,
And plac'd true wisdom on th' ufurper's throne:
Philofopher in all things, but pretence;
He taught what they neglected, common sense.
They o'er the ftiff Lyceum form'd to rule;
He, o'er mankind; all Athens was his fchool.
The fober tradesman, and smart petit-maitre,
Great lords, and wits, in their own eyes still greater,
With him grew wife; unknowing they were taught;
He spoke like them, though not like them he thought:
Nor wept, nor laugh'd, at man's perverted ftate;
But left to women this, to ideots that.
View him with fophifts fam'd for fierce contest,
Or crown'd with rofes at the jovial feast;
Infulted by a peevish, noify wife,
Or at the bar foredoom'd to lofe his life;
What moving words flow from his artlefs tongue,
Sublime with eafe, with condefcension strong!
Yet fcorn'd to flatter vice, or virtue blame;
Nor chang'd to please, but pleas'd because the fame;
The fame by friends carefs'd, by foes withstood,
Still unaffected, cheerful, mild, and good.
Behold one pagan, drawn in colours faint,
Outshine ten thousand monks, though each a faint!
Here let us fix our foot, hence take our view,
And learn to try false merit by the true.
We fee, when reafon ftagnates in the brain,
The dregs of fancy cloud its pureft vein;
But circulation betwixt mind and mind
Extends its course, and renders it refin'd.
When warm with youth we tread the flow'ry way,
All nature charms, and every scene looks gay;
Each object gratifies each fenfe in turn,
Whilst now for rattles, now for nymphs we burn;
Enflav'd by friendship's or by love's soft smile,
We ne'er fufpect, because we mean no guile:
'Till, flush'd with hope from views of past fuccefs,
We lay on fome main trifle all our stress;
When lo! the mistress or the friend betrays,
And the whole fancied cheat of life difplays:
Stun'd with an ill that from ourselves arose;
For inftinct rul'd, when reafon fhould have chofe;
We fly for comfort to fome lonely scene,
Victims henceforth of dirt, and drink, and fpleen.
But let no obftacles that cross our views,
Pervert our talents from their deftin'd ufe;
For, as upon life's hill we upwards prefs,
Our views will be obstructed less and lefs.
Be all falfe delicacy far away,
Left it from nature lead us quite aftray;
And for th' imagin'd vice of human race,
Destroy our virtue, or our parts debase;
Since God with reason joins to make us own,
That 'tis not good for man to be alone.
On the Death of Col. CHARLES Ross, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May 1745.
WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,
BRITANNIA's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day;
While, ftain'd with blood, he strives to tear
Unfeemly from his fea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May;
II.
The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend;
Still fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall bless the grave,
Where-e'er the youth is laid:
That facred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf fhall bind,
And peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms fhall fit at eve
And bend the penfive head!
And, fall'n to fave his injur❜d land,
Imperial Honour's aweful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
|