Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lur'd afide,
To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts defpis'd, Corruption blufh'd and fled,
And Fame purfu'd him where Conviction led.
Age call'd at length his active mind to rest,
With honours fated, and with cares oppreft;
To letter'd ease retir'd and honeft mirth,
To rural grandeur and domestic worth:
Delighted ftill to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet fparkled in the friend.
Calm Confcience, then, his former life furvey'd,
And recollected toils endear'd the fhade,
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's forrow dignify'd his tomb.
The Great John, Duke of Marlborough, built a fuperb Arch over a gutter in Blenheim Park, which gave occafion to a wit of that period to write the following characteristic diftich on the occafion.
HE arch, the height of his ambition shows,
The stream*, the emblem of his bounty flows.
* Whoever remembers the character of the Duke of Marlborough, will not be at a loss to reconcile the contrast of the arch and the stream.
The Superannuated Horse to his Master,
Who had sentenced him to die at the End of the Summer, on Account
of his being unable, from extreme old Age, to live
through the Winter.
ND must thou fix my doom, fweet master, say,
And wilt thou kill thy fervant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,
A little longer hobble round thy door.
For much it glads me to behold this place,
And houfe within this hofpitable fhed;
It glads me more to see my master's face,
And linger near the spot where I was bred.
For, ah! to think of what we both enjoy'd
In my life's prime, ere I was old and poor,
When from the jocund morn to eve employ'd,
My gracious master on this back I bore.
Thrice told ten years have danc'd on down along,
Since first these way-worn limbs to thee I gave,
Sweet-fmiling years! when both of us were young,
The kindest mafter, and the happiest flave.
Ah, years sweet-fmiling! now for ever flown!
Ten years, thrice told, alas, are but a day!
Yet, as together we are aged grown,
Together let us wear our age away.
For still the times behind are dear to thought,
And rapture mark'd each minute as it flew ;
To the light heart all-changing seasons brought
Pains that were soft, or pleasures that were new.
Ah! call to mind, how oft near Scarning's ftream
My steps were bent to yonder Muse-trod grove,
There, the who lov'd thee was thy tender theme,
And I the chofen meffenger of love.
On the gale's pinion, with a lover's care,
Ee'n with the speed of thought, did I not go-
Explore the cottage of thy abfent fair,
And eas'd thy fick'ning bosom of its woe?
And when that doubting heart ftill felt alarm,
Throbbing alternate with its hope and fear,
Did I not bear thee fafely to her arms,
Affure thy faith, and dry up ev'ry tear?
And, ah! forget not when the fever's power
Rag'd fore, how fwift I fought the zephyr's wing,
To cool thy pulfes in the fragrant bower,
And bathe thy temples in the clearest spring.
Friend to thy love, and health, and not a foe
E'en to the muse who led thee on to fame;
Yes, e'en thy lyre to me fome charms may owe,
And fancy kindles into brighter flame.
And haft thou fix'd my doom, fweet mafter, fay-
And wilt thou kill thy fervant, old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,
A little longer hobble round thy door.
Nor could't thou bear to see thy fervant bleed,
Tho' weeping pity has decreed his fate;
Yet, ah! in vain, thy heart for life fhall plead,
If Nature has deny'd a longer date.
Alas! I feel 'tis Nature dooms my death,
Ah me! I feel 'tis Pity gives the blowYet ere it falls, ah, Nature! take my breath, And my kind master shall no forrow know.
Ere the last morn of my allotted life,
A fofter fate fhall end me old and poor, May timely fave me from the uplifted knife, And gently stretch me at my master's door.
OME wit of old-fuch wits of old there. were
Whose hints fhow'd meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind;
When still, as op'ning fenfe her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a feal, or vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my prefumption), I-
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers, various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and ufe.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each fort of paper reprefents fome man.
Pray not the fop-half powder and half lace-
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling place:
He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the 'fcrutoire.
Mechanics, fervants, farmers, and fo forth, Are copy paper of inferior worth
Lefs priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.
The wretch whom av'rice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, fuch as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the mifer's contraft, who deftroys Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys. Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout, He's a true finking paper, past all doubt.
The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this fide always right, and that stark nought;
He foams with cenfure; with applause he raves-
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While fuch a thing as foolfcap has a name.
The hafty gentleman whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you ftep awry,
Who can't a jeft or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch paper to be sure.
What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all!
Them and their works in the fame clafs you'll find;
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.
Obferve the maiden, innocently fweet,
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one I'll bring; 'Tis the great man who fcorns a little thing, Whose thoughts, whofe deeds, whofe maxims, are his
Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone:
True genuine royal paper in his breast:
Of all the kinds most precious, pureft, best.
HE world's a book, writ by the eternal art
Of the great author:
; printed in man's heart.
'Tis falfely printed, tho' divinely penn'd,
And all th' errata will appear at th' end.
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