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The woods recede around the naked seat,
The sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet;
Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands,
Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
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 sense to value riches, with the art
To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,
Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude :
To balance fortune by a just expense,
Join with economy, magnificence;

With splendour, charity; with plenty, health;
Oh teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

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B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty given, And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven ; (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) Mend Fortune's fault, and justify ber grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life, diffused; As poison heals, in just proportion used: In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies, But well-dispersed, is incense to the skies.

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P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats?

237

The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.
Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon?
Whose table, wit, or modest merit share,
Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player?
Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,1

To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where'er he shines, O Fortune! gild the scene,
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There, English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross ?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: 2
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toss'd,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?

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1 'Oxford's better part:' Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford-P.- The Man of Ross: the person here celebrated, who, with a small estate, actually performed all these good works, and whose true name was almost lost (partly by the title of the Man of Ross, given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without so much as an inscription) was called Mr John Kyrle. He effected many good works, partly by raising contributions from other benevolent persons. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the

chancel of the church of Ross, in Herefordshire.-P.

VARIATIONS.

After VER. 250 in the MS.

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who sings not him, oh, may he sing no more!

Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
The Man of Ross,' each lisping 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 state,
Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,

261

Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,

Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a-year.

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Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze! Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays!

B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone?

His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

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P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there,1 where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between ;
Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.

1 Go search it there:' the parish register.

VER. 287, thus in the MS.The register enrolls him with his poor,

VARIATIONS.

Tells he was born and died, and tells no more.

290

Just as he ought, he fill'd the space be

tween;

Then stole to rest, unheeded and unseen.

When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch who, living, saved a candle's end:
Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.1

Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!
And see what comfort it affords our end!

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers2 lies-alas! how changed from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury,3 and love;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his store;
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.

His Grace's fate sage Cutler1 could foresee,
And well (he thought) advised him, 'Live like me.'

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'Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone:' the poet ridicules the wretched taste of carving large periwigs on bustos, of which there are several vile examples in the tombs at Westminster and elsewhere.-P.-2 Great Villierslies this lord, yet more famous for his vices than his misfortunes, after having been possessed of about L.50,000 a-year, and passed through many of the highest posts in the kingdom, died in the year 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, reduced to the utmost misery.-P.- Shrewsbury:' the Countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The earl, her husband, was killed by the Duke of Buckingham in a duel; and it has been said, that during the combat she held the duke's horse in the habit of a page.—P.—1 ́ Cutler: 'a notorious miser.

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As well his Grace replied, 'Like you, Sir John?
That I can do, when all I have is gone.'
Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd,
Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall;
For very want he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power;
For very want he could not pay a dower.
A few gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd,
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What even denied a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel-the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,

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Virtue and Wealth! what are ye but a name!'
Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared?

Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tired-I'll tell a tale-

B.

Agreed.

P. Where London's column,1 pointing at the skies Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;

There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;

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"Where London's column:' the monument, built in memory of the fire of London, with an inscription, importing that city to have been burnt by the Papists.

VARIATIONS.

VER. 337, in the former editions

That knotty point, my lord, shall I discuss,
Or tell a tale ?-A tale.-It follows thus.

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