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Polite refinement, offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world
Draws gross in purity, and likes it well,
The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode,
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp, and clear impression of good sense,
And be not coftly nore than of true worth,
He puts it on, and for decorum fake,
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart
Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling, and that vice,
Though well perfum’d, and elegantly dress’d,
Like an unburied carcase, trick'd with flow'rs,
Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance, than for fair attire.
So life glides smoothly, and by stealth, away,
More golden than that age of fablid gold,
Renown'd in ancient song ; not vex'd with care,
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end,
away! and so at last My share of duties decently fulfill d, Mav fome disease, not tardy to perform Its destin'd office, yet with gentle Itroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat. Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when callid, B.b
To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse,
I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,
With that light talk, but soon to please her more,
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit.
Rov'd far, and gather'd much. Some harsh, 'tis true, :
Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digested. Grateful fome
To palates that can tafte immortal truth,
Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd.
But all is in his hand whofe praise I feek.
In vain the poet fings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
Tis not in artful measures, in the chime,
And idle tinkling of a ninftrel's lyre,
To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart.
Whofe frown can disappoint the proudest Atrain,
Whole approbation---profper even mine.
It is not from his form in which we'trace
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives.
That form indeed, th' associate of a mind,
Vaft in its powr's, ethereal in its kind,
That form, the labour of almighty skill,
Fram'd for the service of a free-born will,
Aflerts precedence, and bespeaks controul,
But borrows all its grandeur from the foul.
Hers is the state, the fplendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.
For her, the memi'ry fills her ample page
With truths pour'd down from ev'ry diftant age,