Therefore in contemplation is his blifs,
Whose power is fuch, that whom the lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
Not flothful he, though feeming unemployed,
And cenfured oft as useless. Stilleft ftreams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird,
That flutters leaft, is longeft on the wing.
Afk him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he fhall answer-None.
His warfare is within. There unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never withering wreaths, compared with which
The laurels that a Cæfar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the felf-approving haughty world,
That as the sweeps him with her whistling filks
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps the owes
Her funshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harveft, to the prayer he makes,
When, Ifaac like, the folitary faint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself.
Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns
Of little worth, an idler in the beft,
If, author of no mischief and fome good,
He feek his proper happiness by means,
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.
Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incumbrance on the state,
Receiving benefits, and rendering none.
His fphere though humble, if that humble sphere
Shine with his fair example, and though small
His influence, if that influence all be spent
In foothing forrow and in quenching ftrife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works,
From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of wo,
Then let the fupercilious great confess
He ferves his country, recompenfes well
The ftate, beneath the fhadow of whofe vine
He fits fecure, and in the scale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a flighted, place,
The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
Muft drop indeed the hope of public praise;
But he may boast what few that win it can,
That if his country stand not by his skill,
At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a fenfual world
Draws grofs impunity, and likes it well,
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it.
The ftamp and clear impreffion of good fenfe, And be not coftly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and for decorum fake
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as fhe.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the teft of confcience, and a heart
Not foon deceived; aware that what is bafe
No polish can make fterling; and that vice,
Though well perfumed and elegantly dreffed,
Like an unburied carcafe tricked with flowers,
Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,..
R
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renowned in ancient fong; not vexed with care
Or ftained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at last,
My fhare of duties decently fulfilled,
May fome difeafe, not tardy to perform
Its deftined office, yet with gentle ftroke,
Difmifs me weary to a safe retreat,
Beneath the turf, that I have often trod.
It shall not grieve me then, that once, when called To drefs a Sofa with the flowers of verfe,
I played awhile, obedient to the fair,
With that light tafk; but foon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little pleafe,
Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;
Roved far, and gathered much: fome harfh, 'tis true,
Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,
But wholefome, well-digefted; grateful fome
To palates, that can taste immortal truth;
Infipid elfe, and sure to be despised.
But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet fings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
BOOK VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 243
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minftrel's lyre,
To charm his ear, whofe eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudeft ftrain, Whofe approbation-profper even mine,
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