We are become fo candid and so fair,
So liberal in conftruction, and fo rich
In Chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age!
That they are fafe; finners of either fex
Tranfgrefs what laws they may.

well bred,

Well drefs'd,

Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To país us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applaufe.
But he has burnt her mafks, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And fpecious femblances have loft their use.

$107. On the Employments of what is called an Idle Life. COWPER.

HOW various his employments whom the world
Cal's idle, and who justly in return
Efteens that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful induftry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Drefs'd to his tafte, inviting him abroad-
Can he want occupation who has thefe ?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious cafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not wafle it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with ufe,
When He fhall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our bleffings-bufinefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By caufes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who fecks
A focial, not a diffipated life-

Has bufinefs; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.
A life all turbulence and noife may feem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wildom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in ftorms
Or dives not for it; or brings up inftead,
Vainly induftrious, a difgraceful prize.

ros. The Poft comes in-the News-paper is read-The World contemplated at a difiance. CowPER. HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder

bridge,

That with its wearifome but needful length
Beftrides the wint'ry food, in which the moon
Secs her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
With fpatter'd boots, ftrapp'd waift, and frozen
News fron all nations lumb'ring at his back.

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind.
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;

And, having dropt th' expected bag, pafs on.
He whiftles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thoufands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiffrent whether grief or joy.
Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconfcious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd
Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?

Is India free and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a finile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire and clofe the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That chcer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who with thining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points thro' both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the stage.
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and fimiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention while I read

Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break→
What is it but a map of bufy life,

Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee,
The feals of office glitter in his cycs; [heels,
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twifts him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in feft
Meanders lubricate the course they take:
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bafhfulnefs! it claims at least this praise,
The dearth of information and good fenfe
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.

Cataracs

Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forefts of no meaning spread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion-rofes for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothlefs, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their fweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleafant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world. To ice the ftir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
To hear the roar the fends through all her gates
At a fafe diftance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at cafe
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And fpreads the honey of his deep research.
At his return, a rich repaft for me!

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.

$109. A Fragment. MALLET. FAIR morn afcends: freth zephyrs breath Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath: Where, fown profufely, herb and flow'r Of balmy fmell, of healing pow'r, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe freth life in ev'ry gale. Here fpreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, fweetly-penfive, Silence reigns; And there, at utmoft ftretch of eye, A mountain fades into the sky; While, winding round, diffus'd and deep, A river rolls with founding fweep. Of human art no traces near, I feem alone with nature here

Here are thy walks, O facred Health!
The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth;
The feas'ning of all good below,
The fov'reign friend in joy or woe.
O Thou, moft courted, most defpis'd,
And but in abfence duly priz'd!
Pow'r of the foft and ofy face!
The vivid pulse, the vermil grace,
The fpirits, when they gayeft fhine,
Youth, beauty, pleafiire, all are thine!
O fun of life, whofe heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The ftorm of fate, the cloud of
years,
Till nature, with thy parting light,
Repofes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophied roofs of state,
Abodes of fplendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot Riot would his anguifh fteep,
But toffes through the midnight shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to fhady cell,

Where temp'rance, where the Mufes dwell,
Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feafting car and eye,
With fong and profpect which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.

But when the fun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train
(All nature fick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her feat.
There plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converfe with the Dead;
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And fhadowy fkim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and Friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.
Thus mufing in the folemn fhade,
At once the founding breeze was laid e

Ggz

And

And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bow'r :
When iffuing from the inmoft wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.
O Freedom! fov'reign boon of Heaven,
Great Charter with our being giv'n;
For which the patriot and the fage
Have plann'd, have bled, thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!

§ 110. Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARTON. HAIL, meek-eyed Maiden, clad in fober grey, Whofe foft approach the weary woodman loves ;

As homeward bent to kifs his prattling babes
Jocund he whiftles through the twilight groves.
When Phoebus finks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the mifty meadows walk;
The drooping daifies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurfe the nodding violet's tender ftalk.
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bow'rs and cooling caverns ran,
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the fwallow o'er the wat'ry fcene;
And from the fheep-cote, and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.
The fwain, that artlefs fings on yonder rock,
His fupping fheep and length'ning fhadow fpies,
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm refreshing hour,
And with hoarfe humming of unnumber'd flies.
Now ev'ry Paffion fleeps: defponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-reftlefs Pride;
And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful foul,
Anger and mad Ambition's ftorms fubfide.
O modeft Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy penfive train;
Lift'ning to every wildly-warbling note
That fills with farewel fweet thy darkening plain.

While down her neck her vagrant treffes flow, In all the awful negligence of woe;

Her urn fuftain'd her arm, that fculptur'd vase Where Vulcan's art had lavifh'd all his grace. Here, full with life, was heaven-taught Science feen,

Known by the laurel wreath and mufing mien; There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace fedate and bland,

Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; While folemn domes, arch'd fhades, and vistas

green,

At well-mark'd diftance close the facred scene.
On this the goddess caft an anxious look,
Then dropt a tender tear, and thus fhe spoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vafe;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rife.
Yes, Ifis! oft haft thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead;
Oft haft thou ftopt thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd its growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth, with fame's ftrong impulfe
Prefs'd to the goal, and at the goal untir'd [fir'd,
Snatch'd each celeftial wreath, to bind his brow,
The Mufes, Graces, Virtues could beftow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Memory's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hampden, Somers fhine.
See Hough, fuperior to a tyrant's doom,
Smile at the menace of the flave of Rome:
Each foul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,
Each breaft ftrong panting with its country's love,
All that to Albion gave their heart or head,
That wifely counsell'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful fmile,
The well-carn'd prize of every virtuous toil
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd fpring.
Ah! I remember well yon beechen spray,
There Addifon firft tun'd his polish'd lay;
'Twas there great Cato's form firft met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majefty;

[awe,

My fon," he cried, "obferve this mien with "In folemn lines the ftrong refemblance draw; "The piercing notes fhall itrike each British ear; And, rous'd to glory by the nervous ftrain, "Each British eye fhall drop the patriot tear! "Each Youth fhall fpurn at flavery's abject reign; "Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws, "And speak, and act, and bleed, in freedom's "caufe."

The Hero fpoke; the bard affenting bow'd; The lay to Liberty and Cato flow'd; While Echo, as the rov'd the vale along, Join'd the ftrong cadence of his Roman fong.

But, ah! how Stillness flept upon the ground, How mute attention check'd each rifing found, Scarce ftole a breeze to wave the leafy spray, Scarce trill'd fweet Philomel her fofteft lay, When Locke walk'd mufing forth! e'en now I Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow; [view

So (the fimilitude is trite)

The moon still thines with borrow'd light;
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd clothes.
Methinks there is no better time
To fhew the ufe I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning,
Prefuming on good-nature's fcore,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.
The firft advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loofe and free:
The bard indeed full oft complains
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains;
And, when he wants to leap the fence,
Still keeps him pris'ner to the fenfe.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes im only ftrut the more,
While, raving in pathetic strains,
He thakes his legs to clank his chains.
From rhyme, as from a handfome face,
Nonfenfe acquires a kind of grace;
I therefore give it all its scope,
That fenfe may unperceiv'd clope.
So Mrs of bafeft tricks
(I love a fling at politics)
Amufe the nation, court, and king,

With breaking F-kes, and hanging Byng;
And make each puny rogue a prey,
While they, the greater, flink away.
This fimile perhaps would ftrike,
If match'd with fomething more alike;
Then take it drefs'd a fecond time
In Prior's Eafe, and my Sublime.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A mob of people in the street,
Ready to give the robb'd relief,
And all in hafte to catch a thief;

While the fly rogue, who filch'd the prey,
Too close befet to run away,
Stop thief! ftop thief! exclaims alond,
And fo efcapes among the crowd?
So Minifters, &c.

O England, how I mourn thy fate!
For fure thy loffes now are great;
Two fuch what Briton can endure,
Minorca, and the Connoiffeur!

"Howe'er defun&t you fet him down, "He's only going out of Town."

§ 113. Ode to Arthur Onflow, Efq. †
THIS goodly frame what virtue fo approves,
And teftifies the pure ethereal fpirit,
As mild Benevolence?

She with her fifter Mercy ftill awaits
Befide th'eternal throne of Jove,

And measures forth with unwithdrawing hand The bleffings of the various year, Sunshine or fhow'r, and chides the madding

tempeft.

With her the heaven-bred nymph, meck Charity, Shall fashion Onflow forth in fairest portrait; And with recording care

Weave the fresh wreathe that flow'ring virtue claims.

But, oh, what mufe fhall join the band?
He long has fojourn'd in the facred haunts,
And knows each whifp'ring grot and
glade

Trod by Apollo, and the light-foot Graces.
How then thall aukward gratitude,
And the prefumption of untutor'd duty,

Attune my numbers, all too rude?
Little he recks the meed of fuch a fong;
Yet will I ftretch aloof,
And when I tell of Courtesy,
Of well-attemper'd Zeal,'

Of awful Prudence foothing fell Contention,
Where thall the lineaments agree

But in thee, Onflow? You your wonted leave Indulge mc, nor mifdeem a foldier's bold em

prize,

Who in the diffonance of barb'rous war, Long trainid, revifits oft the facred treasures Of antique memory;

Or where fage Pindar reins his fiery car,

Through the vaft vault of Heaven fecure, Or what the Attic mufe that Homer fill'd,

Her other fon, thy Milton taught,
Or range the flow'ry fields of gentle Spenfer.
And, ever as I go, allurements vain
Cherish a feeble fire, and feed my idle
Fancy: oh could I once
Charm to their melody my thrilling reeds!
To Heuries and to Edwards old,
Dread names! I'd meditate the faithful fong;
Or tell what time Britannia,

Whilom the fairest daughter of old Ocean,
In loathly difarray, dull eyes,
And faded cheek, wept o'er her abject sons :
Till William, great deliverer,
Led on the comely train, gay Liberty,
Religion, matron ftaid,
With all her kindred goddeffes;

Juftice