Nor trade so low, profession useless, thrives,
Which to its followers not greatness gives.
What quality so mean, what vice can shame
The base possessors from the mighty claim?
To make our merits little weight prevail,
We put not virtue in the other scale;
Against our neighbour's scale our own we press,
And each man's great who finds another less.
In large dominions some exert their state,
But all men find a corner to be great.
The lowest lawyer, parson, courtier, squire,
Is somewhere great, finds some that will admire.
Where shall we say then that true greatness dwells? In palaces of kings, or hermits' cells? Does she confirm the minister's mock-state, Or bloody on the victor's garland wait? Warbles, harmonious, she the poet's song, Or, graver, laws pronounces to the throng?
To no profession, party, place confin'd,
True greatness lives but in the noble mind;
Him constant through each various scene attends,
Fierce to his foes, and faithful to his friends.
In him, in any sphere of life she shines,
Whether she blaze a Hoadley 'mid divines,
Or, an Argyle, in fields and senates dare,
Supreme in all the arts of peace and war.
Greatness with learning deck'd in Carteret see,
With justice, and with clemency in Lee;
In Chesterfield to ripe perfection come,
See it in Littleton beyond its bloom.
Lives there a man, by nature form'd to please,
To think with dignity, express with ease;
Upright in principle, in council strong,
Prone not to change, nor obstinate too long:
Whose soul is with such various talents bless'd,
What he now does seems to become him best;
Whether the Cabinet demands his pow'rs,
Or addresses soothe his vacant hours,
gay
Or when from graver tasks his mind unbends,
To charm with wit the muses or his friends.
His friends! who in his favour claim no place,
From titles, pimping, flattery or lace,
To whose blest lot superior portions fall,
To most of fortune, and of taste to all.
Aw'd not by fear, by prejudice not sway'd,
By fashion led not, nor by whim betray'd,
By candour only biass'd, who shall dare
To view and judge and speak men as they are?
In him (if such there be) is greatness shewn,
Nor can he be to Dodington unknown.
WHAT is good-nature? Gen'rous Richmond, tell; He can declare it best, who best can feel.
Is it a foolish weakness in the breast,
As some who know, or have it not, contest?
Or is it rather not the mighty whole,
Full composition of a virtuous soul?
Is it not virtue's self? A flower so fine,
It only grows in soils almost divine.
Some virtues flourish, like some plants, less nice, And in one nature blossom out with vice.
Knaves may be valiant, villains may be friends;
And love in minds deprav'd effect its ends.
Good-nature, like the delicatest seeds.
Or dies itself, or else extirpates weeds.
Yet in itself, howe'er unmix'd and
No virtue from mistakes is less secure.
Good-nature often we those actions name,
Which flow from friendship, or a softer flame.
Pride may the friend to noblest efforts thrust,
Or savages grow gentle out of lust.
The meanest passion may the best appear,
And men may seem good-natur'd from their fear.
What by this name, then, shall be understood? What? but the glorious lust of doing good? The heart that finds its happiness to please Can feel another's pain, and taste his ease. The cheek that with another's joy can glow, Turn pale and sicken with another's woe; Free from contempt and envy, he who deems Justly of life's two opposite extremes. Who to make all and each man truly bless'd Doth all he can and wishes all the rest?
Tho' few have pow'r their wishes to fulfil, Yet all men may do good, at least in will. Tho' few, with you or Marlborough, can save From poverty, from prisons, and the grave; Yet to each individual heav'n affords
The pow'r to bless in wishes, and in words.
Happy the man with passions bless'd like you, Who to be ill, his nature must subdue. Whom fortune fav'ring, was no longer blind, Whose riches are the treasures of mankind. O! nobler in thy virtues than thy blood, Above thy highest titles place The Good.
High on life's summit rais'd, you little know The ills which blacken all the vales below; Where industry toils for support in vain, And virtue to distress still joins disdain.
Swelt'ring with wealth, where men unmov'd can hear
The orphans sigh, and see the widow's tear;
Where griping av'rice slights the debtor's pray'r,
And wretches wanting bread deprives of air.
Must it not wond'rous seem to hearts like thine,
That God, to other animals benign,
Should unprovided man alone create,
And send him hither but to curse his fate!
Is this the being for whose use the earth
Sprung out of nought, and animals had birth?
This he, whose bold imagination dares
Converse with heav'n, and soar beyond the stars?
Poor reptile! wretched in an angel's form,
And wanting that which Nature gives the worm.
Far other views our kind Creator knew, When man the image of himself he drew.
So full the stream of Nature's bounty flows,
Man feels no ill, but what to man he owes.
The earth abundant furnishes a store,
To sate the rich, and satisfy the poor.
These would not want, if those did never hoard;
Enough for Irus falls from Dives' board.
And dost thou, common son of Nature, dare
From thy own brother to withhold his share?
To vanity, pale idol, offer up
The shining dish, and empty golden cup!
Or else in caverns hide thy precious ore,
And to the bowels of the earth restore
What for our use she yielded up before?
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