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• At length, corruption, like a general flood, 135
So long by watchful ministers withstood,
Shall deluge all; and avarice, creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun;
Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks,
Peeress and butler share alike the box, 140
And judges job, and bishops bite the town,
And mighty dukes pack cards for half a crown.
See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms,
And France revenged on Anne's and Edward's

arms !! 'Twas no court badge, great scrivener! fired thy brain,

145 Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain : No, 'twas thy righteous end, ashamed to see Senates degenerate, patriots disagree, And nobly wishing party rage to cease, To buy both sides, and give thy country peace.

All this is madness,' cries a sober sage: 151 But who, my friend, has reason in his rage ? • The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still.' Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame, 155 Than ev'n that passion, if it has no aim; For though such motives folly you may call, The folly 's greater to have none at all. Hear then the truth :-"'Tis Heaven each pas

sion sends, And different men directs to different ends. 160 was one of the first projectors of the South-sea company, and afterwards one of the directors and chief managers of the famous scheme in 1720. He was also one of those who suffered most severely by the bill of pains and penalties on the said directors.--Pope.

Extremes in nature equal good produce;
Extremes in man concur to general use.
Ask me what makes one keep and one bestow ?
That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow; 164
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Through reconciled extremes of drought and rain;
Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
And gives the eternal wheels to know their rounds.

Riches, like insects, when conceald they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. 170
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir;
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst; 175
And men and dogs shall drink him till they

burst. Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth. What though, the use of barbarous spits forgot, His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? 180 His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads bless'd his board? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than bramins, saints, and sages did before. To cram the rich was prodigal expense, 185 And who would take the poor from Providence ? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old

hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall:

173 This year a reservoir. A quaint idea borrowed from old Fuller, in his · Church History.'

No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound;
No noontide bell invites the country round : · 190
Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey,
And turn the unwilling steeds another way :
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the saved candle and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat. 196

Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right: For what to shun will no great knowlege need; But what to follow, is a task indeed.

200 Yet, sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire and deep divine ! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws; 205 His oxen perish in his country's cause; 'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat; The sylvans groan—no matter—for the fleet: 210 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 regard his toils,–. 215 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.

After ver. 218, in the Ms.

Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their lord ;

The sense to value riches, with the art To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart, 220 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 splendor, charity; with plenty, health ; 225 0, teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoild 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: 230 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; 235 But well dispersed, is incense to the skies.

P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ? 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,
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. 242 Or player. Alluding to Cibber. 243 Oxford's better part. Edward Harley, earl of Oxford ; the

POPE.

240

II.

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, 255 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 ? 260 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? • The Man of Ross ! each lisping babe replies.

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

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