The brightest truths, that man has ever seen For ghostly counsel; if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not back'd With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver's part; Or be dishonor'd in th' exterior form And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mumm'ry, that let down The pulpit to the level of the stage; Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.
The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. A relaxation of religion's hold
Upon the roving and untutor'd heart Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd, The laity run wild. But do they now? Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd. As nations, ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one; so we, no longer taught By monitors, that mother-church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er posterity see verse of mine) Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George's days? My very gentle reader, yet unborn,
Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since Heav'n would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like ours,
A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin. We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd And neatly fitted, it compresses hard The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sov'reign and most effectual to secure A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else our lot. But thus admonish'd, we can walk erect- One proof at least of manhood! while the friend Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore, And by caprice as multiplied as his, Just please us while the fashion is at full, But change with ev'ry moon. The sycophant, Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date; Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; Finds one ill-made, another obsolete; This fits not nicely, that is ill-conceiv'd; And, making prize of all that he condemns, With our expenditure defrays his own. Variety 's the very spice of life,
That gives it all its flavor. We have run Through ev'ry change, that Fancy, at the loom Exhausted, has had genius to supply; And, studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance, a little us'd,
For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires; And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, Where peace and hospitality might reign. What man that lives, and that knows how to live, Would fail t' exhibit at the public shows A form as spendid as the proudest there, Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough, With reasonable forecast and dispatch, Tinsure a side-box station at half-price.
You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, His daily fare as delicate. Alas! He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet! The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring, Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. There we grow early grey, but never wise; There form connexions, but acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports, which only childhood could excuse. There they are happiest, who dissemble best Their weariness; and they the most polite. Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) Make just reprisals; and with cringe and shrug, And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, And gild our chamber-ceiling as they pass, To her, who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill afford,
Is hackney'd home unlackey'd; who, in haste Alighting, turns the key in her own door, And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, On Fortune's velvet altar off'ring up Their last poor pittance-Fortune, most severe Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far Than all that held their routs in Juno's Heav'n.— So fare we in this prison-house the World; And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see So many maniacs dancing in their chains. They gaze upon the links that hold them fast, With eyes of anguish execrate their lot, Then shake them in despair, and dance again!
Now basket up the family of plagues, That waste our vitals; peculation, sale Of honor, perjury, corruption, frauds By forgery, by subterfuge of law, By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen As the necessities their authors feel; Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat At the right door. Profusion is the sire. Profusion, unrestrain'd with all that's base In character, has litter'd all the land, And bred, within the mem'ry of no few, A priesthood, such as Baal's was of old, A people, such as never was till now. It is a hungry vice: it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use: Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slipp'ry prey: unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band That holds mankind together, to a scourge. Profusion, deluging a state with lusts Of grossest nature and of worst effects, Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds, And warps, the consciences of public men, Till they can laugh at Virtue, mock the fools That trust them; and in th' end disclose a face That would have shock'd Credulity herself
Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse- Since all alike are selfish, why not they? This does Profusion, and th' accursed cause Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. In colleges and halls in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety, and truth, Were precious, and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, Not yet by Time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips; and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenuous worth, That blush'd at its own praise; and press the youth Close to his side, that pleas'd him. Learning grew Beneath his care a thriving vig'rous plant; The mind was well-inform'd, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice. If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleap'd The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe, As left him not, till penitence had won Lost favor back again, and clos'd the breach. But discipline, a faithful servant long, Declin'd at length into the vale of years: A palsy struck his arm; his sparkling eye
Was quench'd in rheums of age; his voice, unstrung, Grew tremulous, and mov'd derision more Than rev'rence in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend; and Discipline at length, O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. Then Study languish'd, Emulation slept, And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where Ignorance in stilts, His cap well lin'd with logic not his own, With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part, Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny Became stone blind; Precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was so. A dissolution of all bonds ensued;
The curbs invented for the mulish mouth
Add to such erudition, thus acquir'd, Where science and where virtue are profess'd? They may confirm his habits, rivet fast His folly; but to spoil him, is a task That bids defiance to th' united pow'rs Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews.
Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse? The children crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd, Through want of care; or her, whose winking eye And slumb'ring oscitancy mars the brood? The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, She needs herself correction; needs to learn, That it is dang 'rous sporting with the world, With things so sacred as a nation's trust, The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. All are not such. I had a brother once- Peace to the mem'ry of a man of worth, A man of letters, and of manners too! Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears, When gay Good-nature dresses her in smiles. He grac'd a college,* in which order yet Was sacred; and was honor'd, lov'd, and wept, By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd With such ingredients of good sense, and taste Of what is excellent in man, they thirst With such a zeal to be what they approve, That no restraints can circumscribe them more Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. Nor can example hurt them: what they see Of vice in others but enhancing more The charms of virtue in their just esteem. If such escape contagion, and emerge Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad, And give the world their talents and themselves, Smail thanks to those, whose negligence or sloth Expos'd their inexperience to the snare, And left them to an undirected choice.
See then the quiver broken and decay'd, In which are kept our arrows! Rusting there In wild disorder, and unfit for use,
What wonder, if, discharg'd into the world, They shame their shooters with a random flight, Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine! Well may the church wage unsuccessful war, With such artill'ry arm'd. Vice parries wide Th' undreaded volley with a sword of straw, And stands an impudent and fearless mark.
Have we not track'd the felon home, and found His birth-place and his dam? The country mourns,
Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts Mourns because ev'ry plague, that can infest
Grew rusty hy disuse; and massy gates Forgot their office, op'ning with a touch;
Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; The tassel'd cap and the spruce band a jest, A mock'ry of the world! What need of these For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oft'ner seen With belted waist and pointers at their heels, Than in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd, If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot; And such expense, as pinches parents blue, And mortifies the lib'ral hand of love, Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, That sits a stigma on his father's house, And cleaves through life inseparably close To him that wears it. What can after-games Of riper joys, and commerce with the world,
The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon,
Society, and that saps and worms the base Of th' edifice, that policy has rais'd, Swarms in all quarters: meets the eye, the ear, And suffocates the breath at ev'ry turn. Profusion breeds them; and the cause itself Of that calamitous mischief has been found: Found too where most offensive, in the skirts Of the rob'd pedagogue! Else let th' arraign'd Stand up unconcious, and refute the charge. So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, And way'd his rod divine, a race obscene, Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains, Were cover'd with the pest; the streets were fill'd, The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook; Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scap'd; And the land stank-so num'rous was the fry.
*Bene't College, Cambridge.
Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heaven-born, and destin'd to the skies again. Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd, That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Self-recollection and reproof. Address to do- Of Novelty, her tickle, frail support; mestic happiness. Some account of myself. For thou art meek and constant, hating change, The vanity of many of their pursuits, who are And finding in the calm of truth-tried love reputed wise. Justification of my censures. Joys, that her stormy maptures never yield. Divine illumination necessary to the most expert Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made philosopher. The question, What is truth? an- Of honor, dignity, and fair renown! swered by other questions. Domestic happiness Till prostitution elbows us aside addressed again. Few lovers of the country. In all our crowded streets; and senates seem My tame hare. Occupations of a retired gen- Conven'd for purposes of empire less, tleman in his garden. Pruning. Framing. Than to release th' adult'ress from her bond. Green-house. Sowing of flower-seeds. The Th' adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse! country preferable to the town even in the win- What provocation to th' indignant heart, ter. Reasons why it is deserted at that sea- That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain son. Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expen- The nauseous task, to paint her as she is, sive improvement. Book concludes with an Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame! apostrophe to the metropolis.
As one, who long in thickets and in brakes Entangled winds now this way and now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging and half-despairing of escape;
If chance at length he find a green-sward smooth And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, He cherups brisk his ear-erecting steed, And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; So I, designing other themes, and call'd T'adorn the Sofa with enlogium due, To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat Of academie fame (howe'er deserv'd). Long held, and scarcely disengag'd at last. But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road I mean to tread. I feel myself at large. Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil, If toil await me, or if dangers new.
Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound, What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the satiric thong? Twere wiser far For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes, And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine, My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth; There, undisturb'd by folly, and appriz'd How great the danger of disturbing her, To muse in silence, or at least confine Remarks that gall so many, to the few My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise, that hast surviv'd the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
No-let her pass, and charioted along
In guilty splendor, shake the public ways; The frequency, of crimes has wash'd them white, And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, Whom matrons now of character unsmirch'd And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own. Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time. Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounc'd Her sex's honor, was renoune'd herself By all that priz'd it; not for prudery's sake, But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, Desirous to return, and not receiv'd: But was a wholesome rigor in the main, And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss was loss of all. Men too were nice in honor in those days, And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd. And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold His country, or was slack when she requir'd His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid with the blood, that he had basely spar'd, The price of his default. But now-yes, now We are become so candid and so fair, So lib'ral in construction, and so rich In Christian charity, (good-natur'd age!) That they are safe, sinners of either sex, Transgress what laws they may. Well-dress'd, well-
Well-equipag'd, is ticket good enough, To pass us readily through ev'ry door. Hypocrisy, detest her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet) May claim this merit still-that she admits The worth of what she mimics with such care, And thus gives virtue indirect applause; But she has burnt her mask not needed here. Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts And specious semblances have lost their use. i was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one, who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.
Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods, I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray Each in his own delusion; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream, that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two-thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay, As if created only like the fly,
That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon, To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known; and call the rant A history describe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note, And paint his person, character, and views,
Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up! ""Twere well," says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd, and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with most impending brows,
"Twere well, could you permit the World to live As the World pleases: what's the World to you?" Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts. I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, And exercise all functions of a man. How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, And catechize it well: apply thy glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own; and, if it be, What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind? True, I am no proficient, I confess,
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath; I cannot analyze the air, nor catch
The parallax of yonder lum'nous point, That seems half-quench'd in the immense abyss. Such pow'rs I boast not-neither can I rest A silent witness of the headlong rage, Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. God never meant, that man should scale the Heav'ns
By strides of human wisdom, in his works Though wondrous: he commands us in his word To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause fix'd,The grand effect; acknowledges with joy
As they had known him from his mother's womb. They disentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and shrewd design, That ran through all his purposes, and charge His mind with meanings that he never had, Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation; travel nature up To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars; why some are And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Is 't not a pity now, that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight Of oracles like these? Great pity too, That having wielded th' elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They should go out in fume, and be forgot! Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they But frantic, who thus spend it? all for smoke- Eternity for bubbles proves at last
A senseless bargain. When I see such games Play'd by the creatures of a Pow'r who swears That he will judge the Earth, and call the fool To a sharp reck'ning, that has liv'd in vain; And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, And prove it in the infallible result So hollow and so false-I feel my heart Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps, While thoughtful man is plausibly amus'd.
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of Observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds, Discover him, that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often too Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her author more; From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'd In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment prais'd, And sound integrity, not more than fam'd For sanctity of manners undefil'd.
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flow'r dishevel'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the gen'ral curse Of vanity, that seizes all below. The only amaranthine flow'r on Earth Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth. But what is truth? "Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God impart his light To them that ask it ?-Freely-'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.
What's that, which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it, though the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact? That makes a minister in holy things The joy of many, and the dread of more;
His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?— That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it, that rich men cannot buy, That learning is too proud to gather up; But which the poor, and the despis'd of all, Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth. O friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasure past! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets; Though many boast thy favors, and affect
To understand and choose thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits, Though plac'd in Paradise, (for Earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, By ev'ry pleasing image they present, Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight To fill with riot, and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes We persecute, annihilate the tribes, That draw the sportsman over hill and dale Fearless and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreats; How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen, And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence, and its shade, Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind
Cultur'd and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack,
And clamors of the field?-Detested sport That owes its pleasures to another's pain; That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb but yet endued With eloquence, that agonies inspire, Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs? Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls! Well-one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou may'st frolic on the floor At ev'ning, and at night retire secure To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd ; For I have gain'd thy confidence, have pledg'? All that is human in me, to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave; And, when I place thee in it, sighing say,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend. How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle; and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, And Nature in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad— Can he want occupation, who has these? Will he be idle, who has much t' enjoy? Me therefore studious of laborious ease, Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, Not waste it, and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When He shall call his debtors to account, From whom are all our blessings, business finds Ev'n here! while sedulous I seek t'improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work By causes not to be divulg'd in vain, To its just point-the service of mankind. He, that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life,
Has business; feels himself engag'd t' achieve No unimportant, though a silent, task. A life all turbulence and noise may seem, To him that leads it, wise, and to be prais'd; But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies: He that is ever occupied in storms, Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.
The morning finds the self-sequester'd man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her, who shares his pleasures and his heart. Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph, Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perus'd In selfish silence, but imparted oft, As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear.
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