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Or if he prove unkind, (as who can say
But being man, and therefore frail, he may),
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.
Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand
Pull down the schools-what-all the schools i' the
land?

Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms?
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms?
-A captious question, sir, and yours is one,
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws,
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.
And though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This Building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepared to embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place,
Yet backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged less.

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WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE, IN 1748.

FORTUNE! I thank thee: gentle goddess, thanks!
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thanked thee rather, hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes

And bowel-raking pains of emptiness,

Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,

Hopes she from this, presumptuous--though perhaps
The cobbler, leather-carving artist, might.

Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool, unknowing what he found,

Spurned the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure,)
Conferredst thou, goddess? Thou art blind, thou sayest:
Enough!--thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale
From this thy scant indulgence ;-even here,
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found,
Illustrious hints, to moralise my song.
This ponderous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented many a row,
Haply, (for such its massy form bespeaks),
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore: on this supported oft he stretched,
With uncouth strides, along the furrowed glebe,
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time
(What will not cruel time?) on a wry step,
Severed the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erst with even equal pace,
Pursue his destined way with symmetry
And some proportion formed, now, on one side,
Curtailed and maimed, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on.

Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager :-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails and friends prove true :
But that support soon failing, by him left
On whom he most depended,-basely left,
Betrayed, deserted, from his airy height
Headlong he falls, and through the rest of life
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

AN ODE,

ON READING MR. RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

SAY, ye apostate and profane,
Wretches who blush not to disdain
Allegiance to your God,—

Did e'er your idly-wasted love
Of virtue for her sake remove

And lift you from the crowd?
Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout and they alone,
Are equal to the task:

The labours of the illustrious course
Far other than the unaided force
Of human vigour ask,

To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart too brave to feel
The tortures of despair;

Nor safer yet high-crested pride,
When wealth flows in with every tide
To gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword
The oppressed;-unseen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of woe;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right, a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,
The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,
Oh, with what matchless speed, they leave
The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth?

Derived from heaven alone,

Full on that favoured breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart;-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,
Her feebler spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!

IN A LETTER TO C. P. ESQ.

ILL WITH THE RHEUMATISM.

GRANT me the Muse, ye gods! whose humble flight Seeks not the mountain-top's pernicious height: Who can the tall Parnassian cliff forsake,

To visit oft the still Lethean lake;

Now her slow pinions brush the silent shore,
Now gently skim the unwrinkled waters o'er,

There dips her downy plumes, thence upward flies,
And sheds soft slumbers on her votary's eyes.

IN A LETTER TO THE SAME.

IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

TRUST me the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
From the nice scale of judgment, honours more
Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide
Of profuse courtesy. Not all the gems
Of India's richest soil at random spread
O'er the gay vesture of some glittering dame,
Give such alluring vantage to the person,
As the scant lustre of a few, with choice
And comely guise of ornament disposed.

SONG.

No more shall hapless Celia's ears
Be flattered with the cries
Of lovers drowned in floods of tears,
Or murdered by her eyes;
No serenades to break her rest,

Nor songs her slumbers to molest,

With my fa, la, la.

The fragrant flowers that once would bloom

And flourish in her hair,

Since she no longer breathes perfume

Their odours to repair,

Must fade, alas! and wither now,
As placed on any common brow,

With my fa, la, la.

Her lip, so winning and so meek,
No longer has its charms;
As well she might by whistling seek
To lure us to her arms;
Affected once, 'tis real now,

As her forsaken gums may show,

With my fa, la, la.

The down that on her chin so smooth
So lovely once appeared,

That, too, has left her with her youth,
Or sprouts into a beard;

As fields, so green when newly sown

With stubble stiff are overgrown,

With my fa, la, la.

Then, Celia, leave your apish tricks,
And change your girlish airs,
For ombre, snuff, and politics,

Those joys that suit your years;

No patches can lost youth recall,

Nor whitewash prop a tumbling wall,

With my fa, la, la.

Drayton, March 1753

AN ATTEMPT AT THE MANNER OF WALLER.

DID not thy reason and thy sense,
With most persuasive eloquence,
Convince me that obedience due
None may so justly claim as you,
By right of beauty you would be
Mistress o'er my heart and me.

Then fear not I should e'er rebel,
My gentle love! I might as well
A forward peevishness put on,
And quarrel with the mid-day sun;
Or question who gave him a right
To be so fiery and so bright.

Nay, this were less absurd and vain
Than disobedience to thy reign;
His beams are often too severe ;
But thou art mild, as thou art fair;

First from necessity we own your sway,

Then scorn our freedom, and by choice obey.

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