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;

220

With splendor, charity; with plenty, health; 225 O, teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth! That secret rare, between the extremes to move Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

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 her 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.

230

235

P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.

240

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,
To ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where mad good-nature, bounty misapplied,

In lavish Curio blazed awhile and died;

There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And showing H-y, teach the golden mean.

212 Or player. Alluding to Cibber.

243 Oxford's better part. Edward Harley, earl of Oxford; the

POPE.

II.

K

Where'er he shines, O Fortune, gild the scene, 245
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There, English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honor linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 252 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;

255

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?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
'The Man of Ross !' each lisping babe replies.

260

son of Robert, created earl of Oxford and earl of 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 of Europe.-Pope.

250 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 died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Ross in Herefordshire.-Pope.

262 The Man of Ross. Kyrle possessed about £500 a year: by his union of activity, intelligence, and character, he promoted many of those improvements, whose utility is felt in every neighborhood, but which in every neighborhood depend on the impulse of some public-spirited individual, and

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: 266
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd,
The young who labor, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
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!
say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?

O

271

275

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year! Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze!

Ye little stars, hide diminish'd rays your

!

281

B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to

fame,

Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;

285

without it might wait for ever. Kyrle pointed out the way, and by his personal exertions induced more opulent men to follow the character amply deserved the panegyric. A Kyrle in every considerable village of England would effect more for the comfort, health, and beauty of the country, than all the labors, powerful as they are, of general legislation.

290

Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between;
Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch, who living saved a candle's end:
Shouldering 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.

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

295

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat halfhung,

The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 300
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 Villiers lies: alas! how changed from
him,

That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! 306
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;

305 Great Villiers lies. This lord, yet more famous for his vices than his misfortunes, having been possessed of about £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.-Pope.

307 Cliveden. A delightful palace on the banks of the Thames, built by the duke of Buckingham.-Pope.

308 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 horses in the habit of a page.-Pope.

Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter left of all his store!

310

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 Cutler could foresee,
And well, he thought, advised him :- Live like

me.'

315

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 ? 32
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,

325

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, ev'n denied a cordial at his end,

Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? 330 What but a want, which you perhaps think

mad,

Yet numbers feel,—the want of what he had?
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,

• 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? 336
A knotty point! to which we now proceed:
But you are tired-I'll tell a tale.-B. Agreed.