A medicine it is, which with a touch

Heals all the pains of life; a precious balm,
Which makes the tooth of sorrow venomless,
And of her hornet sting so keen disarms
Cruel Adversity-

A truce to thought,

And come, Alcanòr, Julia, Isabel,

Eliza come, and let us o'er the fields,

Across the down, or through the shelving wood,

Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,

And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite

Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
Which winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please, and something to instruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass

Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor presents her page

Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun.
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,

And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth

Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still shelter'd and secure.

And so the storm,

That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily spares. A thousand blows,
Which shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.
All is not gold, Eliza, which the eye
Delights in. To command a coach and six,
Be styl'd my Lady, or your Grace, to lead

In fashion, shine at court, be cloth'd in silk,

And make an artificial day, beset

With eye-distressing jewels, are but charms Which lift you from the crowd, to be the mock Of hissing envy; steps they are, that lead Unwary maids to fortune's pillory,

To be the butt of undeserv'd reproach
And lying slander. Hast thou not observ'd
The idle school-boy, through a field of wheat
Scarce ripe, returning home, with what delight
He trims a switch, and strikes at the full ear
Most eminent, and still walks on and strikes?
So Fortune gambols with the great, and still,
As one above another climbs, condemns,
And makes him shorter by the head. Well-pleas'd,
No doubt, Alcanor's self were, should by chance
An eddy seize him in the stream of life,
And bear him to a throne, of all this isle
Grand Metropolitan: but trust me, Sir,
Nor Laud nor Tillotson would stoop again
To bear the golden burden. But with him
Sweet peace abounds, and only he escapes

The poison'd shafts of obloquy and wrong,
Who hides his virtue in content; and, like
This modest lily, wins our best regard
By studying to avoid it. Virtue too
Will ever thus her lone retreat betray,
And, spite of privacy, be sought and seen;
For she has fragrance, which delights the sense
Of men and angels, yea, of God himself.—

Away, we loiter. Without notice pass The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy The courtier of the sun. What find we there? The love-sick cowslip, which her head inclines To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this,

A college youth who flashes for a day

All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit,

Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine. How sleek!
How full of grace! and in that globous wig,
So nicely trimm'd, unfathomable stores,

No doubt, of erudition most profound.

Each hair is learned, and his awful phiz,
A well-drawn title-page, gives large account
Of matters strangely complicate within.
Place the two doctors each by each, my friends,
Which is the better? say. I blame not you,
Ye powder'd periwigs, which hardly hide,
With glossy suit and well-fed paunch to boot,
The understanding lean and beggarly.
But let me tell you, in the pompous globe,
Which rounds the dandelion's head, is couch'd
Divinity most rare. I never pass

But he instructs me with a still discourse,
That more persuades than all the vacant noise
Of pulpit rhetoric; for vacant 'tis,

And vacant must it be, by vacant heads
Supported.

Leave we them to mend, and mark

The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps

All night, and never lifts an eye

all day.

་