The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

the day,

nel gay,

knew;

too;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,

Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a

row.

Vain transitory splendor! could not all

Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall?

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.

THE EXILES.

WHERE, then, ah! where shall poverty reside,

To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,

He drives his flock to pick the scanty

blade,

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,

And even the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city sped, what waits him there?

To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,

Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside

the way;

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!

Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? ah, turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.

She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,

Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,

When, idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

Boast of a florid vigor not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow,

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

that parting day,

That call'd them from their native walks

away;

When the poor exiles, every pleasure

past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain

For seats like these beyond the western main;

And shuddering still to face the distant deep,

Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!

The good old sire, the first, prepared to go

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe:

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years,

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

unsound,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done;

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural Virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, And kind connubial Tenderness, are there :

And Piety with wishes placed above, And steady Loyalty and faithful Love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my

woe,

Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so:

Thou guide by which the nobler arts

excel,

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well.

THE TRAVELLER.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor

Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies: Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:

Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,

And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;

Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire

To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire:

Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair,

And every stranger finds a ready chair; Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,

Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destined such delights to share,

My prime of life in wandering spent and

care;

Impell'd with steps unceasing pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view:

That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,

Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,

And find no spot of all the world my

own.

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend: And, placed on high, above the storm's career,

Look downward where an hundred realms appear;

Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,

The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus creation's charms around combine,

Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?

Say, should the philosophic mind dis

dain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it

can,

These little things are great to little man;

And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd;

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;

Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;

For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is

mine!