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Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shews him glories yet to be reveal's.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd,
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird,
That flutters least, is longest on the wing.
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he shall answer None.
His warfare is within. There wuifatigued
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never-withering wreaths, compared with which,
The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,
That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks,
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,
Deems him a cipher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,
When, Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at eventide,
And think on her who thinks not for jerself.
Forgive him then, thon bustler in concerns
Of little worth, an idler in the best,
If author of no mischief and some good,
He seeks bis proper happivess by means
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.
Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,
Engage no rotice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an encumbrance on the state,
Receiving benefits, and rendering none.
His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere
Shine with his fair example, and though small
His influence, if that intluence all be spent
In soothing sorrow, and in quenching strife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works,
From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of woe;

Then let the supercilious great confess
He serves his country, recompenses well
The state, beneath the shadow of whose vino
He sits secure, and in the scale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.
The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;
But he may boast, what few that win it can,
That, if his country stand not by his skill,
At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite Refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp and clear impression of good sense,
And be not costly more than of true worth,
He puts it on, and for decorum sake
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart
Not soon deceive"; aware that what is base
No polish can rake sterling; and that vice,
Though well perfumed and elegantly dressid,
Like an unburied carcaso trick'd with flowers,
Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance, than for fair attire.
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away, and so at last,
My share of duties decently fulfill'd,
May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke,
Dismiss me weary to a sate retreat,
Beneath the turf, that I have often trod.
It shall not grieve me then, that once, when call'd
To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verso
I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light task; but soon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for fruit;
Roved far, and gather'd much ; some harsh, 'tis true,
Pick'd from the thorns and riers of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some
To palates that can taste immortal truth;
Insipid else, and sure to be despised.
But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,
To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart;
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
Whose approbation--prosper even mins.

AN EPISTLE

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago
Alas, how time escapes 'tis even som
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour--and now we never meet!
As some grave gentleman in Terence says

'Twas therefore much the same in ancient days)
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!
True. Changes will befall, and friends may pari,
But distance only cannot change the heart:
And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion true,
One proof should serve—a reference to you.

Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life
Though nothing have occurrd to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?
Can gold grow worthless, bat has stood the touch!
No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such.

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overawed Lest he should trespass, berg'd to go abroad. Go, fellow !-whither ?-turning short aboutNay. Stay at home--you're always going out. 'Tis but a step, sir: just at the treet's end.--For what?-An please you, sir, to see a friend.A friend! Horatio cried, and seem'd to startYea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart.And fetch my cloak; for, thougb the night be raw, I'll see him too-the first I erer saw.

I knew the man, and knew iis nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that woment pinch'd him close, *Ise he was seldom bitter or morose.

EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 353
Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd,
His grief might prompt him with the speech he made ;
Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth.
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.

But not to moralize too much, and strain
To prove an evil of which all complain
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun)
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man,
No matter where, in China or Japan,
Decreed, that whosoever should offend
• Against the well-known duties of a friend,
Convicted once should ever after wear
But half a coat, and shew his bosom bare,
The punishment importing this no doubt,
That all was naught within, and all found out.

O happy Britain! we have not to fear
Such hard and arbitrary measure here ;
Else, could a law, like that which I relate,
Once have the sanction of orr triple state,
Some few, that I have known in days of old,
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ;
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow
Might traverse England safely to and fro,
An honest man close button'd to the chin,
Szoad cloth without, and a warm heart within.

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