Poor Reuben Dixon has the noisiest school Of ragged lads, who ever bow'd to rule;

Low in his price-the men who heave our coals, And clean our causeways, send him boys in shoals: To see poor Reuben, with his fry beside,

Their half-check'd rudeness and his half-scorn'd pride,

Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet,
In the close lane behind the Northgate-street;
T'observe his vain attempts to keep the peace,
Till tolls the bell, and strife and troubles cease,-
Calls for our praise; his labour praise deserves,
But not our pity; Reuben has no nerves:
'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and prate,
He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate.

But Leonard!—yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve,
Who loathes the station which he dares not leave ;
He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread,
All his dependence rests upon his head;
And deeply skill'd in sciences and arts,
On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts.

Alas! what grief that feeling mind sustains, In guiding hands and stirring torpid brains; He whose proud mind from pole to pole will move, And view the wonders of the worlds above;

Who thinks and reasons strongly:-hard his fate, Confined for ever to the pen and slate:

True, he submits, and when the long dull day
Has slowly pass'd, in weary tasks, away,

To other worlds with cheerful view he looks,
And parts the night between repose and books.
Amid his labours, he has sometimes tried
To turn a little from his cares aside;

Pope, Milton, Dryden, with delight has seized,
His soul engaged and of his trouble eased:
When, with a heavy eye and ill-done sum,
No part conceived, a stupid boy will come;
Then Leonard first subdues the rising frown,
And bids the blockhead lay his blunders down;
O'er which disgusted he will turn his eye,
To his sad duty his sound mind apply,
And, vex'd in spirit, throw his pleasures by.

Turn we to schools which more than these afford— The sound instruction and the wholesome board;

And first our school for ladies :-pity calls

For one soft sigh, when we behold these walls,
Placed near the town, and where, from window high,
The fair, confined, may our free crowds espy,
With many a stranger gazing up and down,
And all the envied tumult of the town;
May, in the smiling summer-eve, when they
Are sent to sleep the pleasant hours away,
Behold the poor (whom they conceive the bless'd)
Employ'd for hours, and grieved they cannot rest.

Here the fond girl, whose days are sad and few Since dear mamma pronounced the last adieu, Looks to the road, and fondly thinks she hears The carriage-wheels, and struggles with her tears: All yet is new, the misses great and small, Madam herself, and teachers, odious all; From laughter, pity, nay command, she turns, But melts in softness, or with anger burns; Nauseates her food, and wonders who can sleep On such mean beds, where she can only weep: She scorns condolence-but to all she hates Slowly at length her mind accommodates ; Then looks on bondage with the same concern As others felt, and finds that she must learn As others learn'd-the common lot to share, To search for comfort and submit to care.

There are, 'tis said, who on these seats attend, And to these ductile minds destruction vend; Wretches, (to virtue, peace, and nature, foes) To these soft minds, their wicked trash expose; Seize on the soul, ere passions take the sway, And lead the heart, ere yet it feels, astray: Smugglers obscene!—and can there be who take Infernal pains, the sleeping vice to wake? Can there be those, by whom the thought defiled Enters the spotless bosom of a child?

By whom the ill is to the heart convey'd,
Who lend the foe, not yet in arms, their aid,
And sap the city-walls before the siege be laid?
Oh! rather skulking in the by-ways steal,
And rob the poorest traveller of his meal;
Burst through the humblest trader's bolted door;
Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store;
With stolen steed, on highways take your stand,
Your lips with curses arm'd, with death
hand;-
your
Take all but life-the virtuous more would say,
Take life itself, dear as it is, away,
Rather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray.
Years pass away-let us suppose them past,
Th' accomplish'd nymph for freedom looks at last;
All hardships over, which a school contains,
The spirit's bondage and the body's pains;
Where teachers make the heartless, trembling set
Of pupils suffer for their own regret;

Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire,
Chills the fair child, commanded to retire;
She felt it keenly in the morning air,
Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer.-

-

More pleasant summer; but then walks were made, Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade;

They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge, Only to set their feelings on an edge;

And now at eve, when all their spirits rise,
Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies;
Where yet they all the town alert can see,
And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea.

These and the tasks successive masters broughtThe French they conn'd, the curious works they wrought:

The hours they made their taper fingers strike,
Note after note, all dull to them alike;

Their drawings, dancings on appointed days,
Playing with globes, and getting parts of plays;
The tender friendships made 'twixt heart and heart,
When the dear friends had nothing to impart :-
All! all! are over;-now th' accomplish'd maid
Longs for the world, of nothing there afraid:
Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast,
And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest;
At the paternal door a carriage stands,

Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their hands.
Ah!-world unknown! how charming is thy view,
Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new:
Ah!-world experienced! what of thee is told?
How few thy pleasures, and those few how old!
Within a silent street, and far apart

From noise of business, from a quay or mart,
Stands an old spacious building, and the din
You hear without, explains the work within;