Th' audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.
Perhaps, though by profeffion ghostly, pure,
He too may have his vice, and fometimes prove
Less dainty than becomes his grave out-side,
Examine well

In lucrative concerns.

His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean
But here and there an ugly fmutch appears.

Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He bas touch'à
Corruption. Whofe feeks an audit here
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,
Wildfowl or ven'fon, and his errand speeds.

But fafter far, and more than all the reft,
A noble caufe, which none who bears a spark
Of public virtue, ever wifh'd remov❜d,
Works the deplor'd and mifchievous effect.
'Tis univerfal foldierfhip has ftabb'd
The heart of merit in the meaner clafs.
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage
Of thofe that bear them, in whatever caufe,
Seem moft at variance, with all moral good,
And incompatible with ferious thought.
The clown, the child of nature, without guile,
Bleft with an infant's ignorance of all,
But his own fimple pleafures, now and then,
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair,
Is balloted, and trembles at the news.
Sheepish, he doffs his hat, and mumbling, fwears
A Bible-oath, to be whate'er they pl:afe,
To do, he knows not what. The task perform'd,

That t

That inftant he becomes the ferjeant's care,

His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.
His aukward gait, his introverted toes,
Bent knees, round fhoulders, and dejected looks,
Procure him many a curfe. By flow degrees,
Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn ftuff,
He yet, by flow degrees, puts off himself,
Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well.
He ftands erect, his flouch becomes a walk,
He steps right onward, martial in his air,
His form and movement; is as fmart above
As meal and larded locks can make him; wears
His hat, or his plum'd helmet, with a grace,
And his three years of herofhip expir'd,
Returns indignant to the flighted plough.
He hates the field in which no fife or drum
Attends him, drives his cattle to a march,
And fighs for the smart comrades he has left.
'Twere well if his exterior change were all-
But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost
His ignorance, and harmless manners too.
To fwear, to game, to drink, to fhew at home,

By lewdnefs, idlenefs, and Sabbath-breach,

The great proficiency he made abroad,
T'astonish, and to grieve his gazing friends,
To break fome maiden's, and his mother's heart,
To be a peft where he was ufeful once,

Are his fole aim, and all his glory now.

Man,

Man, in fociety, is like a flow'r,
Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone,
His faculties, expanded in full bloom,

Shine out, there only reach their proper ufe.
But man affociated and leagu'd with man,
By regal warrant, or felf-join'd by bond,
For int'reft-fake, or fwarming into clans,
Beneath one head, for purposes of war,
Like flow'rs felected from the reft, and bound,
And bundled clofe to fill fome crowded vafe,
Fades rapidly, and by compreffion marr'd,
Contracts defilement, not to be endur❜d.
Hence, charter'd boroughs are such public plagues,
And burghers, men immaculate, perhaps,
In all their private functions, once combin❜d,
Become a loathfome body, only fit

For diffolution, hurtful to the main.
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of fin,
Against the charities of domeftic life,
Incorporated, feem at once to lofe
Their nature, and difclaiming all regard
For mercy, and the common rights of man,
Build factories with blood, conducting trade
At the fword's point, and dying the white robe
Of innocent commercial justice, red.
Hence too, the field of glory, as the world
Mifdeems it, dazzl'd by its bright array,
With all the majesty of its thund'ring pomp,
Enchanting mufic, and immortal wreaths,
Is but a fchool where thoughtleffness is taught

On

"On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for ev'ry vice.

But flighted as it is, and by the great
Abandon'd, and which still I more regret,
Infected with the manners and the modes,
It knew not once, the country wins me ftill.
I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan,
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly blifs,
But there I laid the feene, There early stray'd
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice

Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural, rural too,
The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
No bard could please me, but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises. Heroes, and their feats,
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe

Of Tytirus, affembling, as he fang,

The ruftic throng, beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed, a poet's charms.
New to my tafte, his Paradife furpafs'd
The ftruggling efforts of my boyish tongue,
To fpeak its excellence; I danc'd for joy.
I marvel'd much, that at fo ripe an age,
As twice feven years, his beauties had then firft
Engag'd my wonder, and admiring ftill,
And still admiring, with regret fuppos'd
The joy half loft, because not fooner found.

Thee

Thee too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetic in its praife, in its purfuit
Determin'd, and poffeffing it at laft

With transports, fuch as favor'd lovers feel,
I ftudy'd, priz'd, and wifh'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and though now reclaim'd
By modern lights, from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy fplendid wit,
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools,
I ftill revere thee, courtly, though retir'd,
Though ftretch'd at ease in Chertfey's filent bowr's,
Not unemploy'd, and finding rich amends

For a loft world, in folitude and verse.

'Tis born with all. The love of Nature's works,
Is an ingredient in the compound, man,
Infus'd at the creation of the kind.

And though th' Almighty Maker, has throughout,
Difcriminated each from each. by strokes,
And touches of his hand, with fo much art
Diversified, that two were never found

Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,

That all difcern a beauty in his works,

And all can tafte them. Minds that have been form'd

And tutor'd, with a relifh more exact,

But none without fome relish, none unmov'd.

It is a flame that dies not, even there,

Where nothing feeds it. Neither bus'nefs, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life,

Whatever else they smother of true worth

In human bofoms, quench it or abate.

The