Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;
But more advis'd to shun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit ?)
And woo some thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulse,

Sounded irregular marches, to be gone-
What, pause a moment when ambition calls!
No, the blood gallops to the distant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame sit still.
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent robe and plain attire,
Smiling approach'd; and what occasion ask'd
Of climbing? She already provident

Had cater'd well, if stomach could digest
Her viands, and a palate not too nice.
Unfit she said, for perilous attempt,
That manly limb requir'd, and sinews tough.

She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew,

On ample ground; where Morpheus strew'd the bed:
Obscurity her curtain round me drew,
And syren Sloth a dull quietus sung.

Sithence no fairy sights, no quick'ning ray,

No stir of pulse, nor objects to entice

Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster'd heart
Sits squat at home, like pagod in a nitch
Demure; or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indostan-Cities, forums, courts,
And prating sanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than stories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the sick

Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.

Instead of converse and variety,

The same trite round, the same stale silent scene: Such are thy comforts, blessed Solitude!

But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind, And simple Quiet with her downy couch, Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams ; And Saunter with a book; and warbling Muse, In praise of hawthorns.-Life's whole business this! Is it to bask i' th' sun? if so, a snail Were happy crawling on a southern wall.

Why sits Content upon a cottage sill At even-tide; and blesseth the coarse meal In sooty corner? why sweet slumbers wait Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote, Sequester'd in a dingle's bushy lap :

'Tis labour makes the peasant's sav'ry fare, And works out his repose: for ease must ask The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.

Oh! listen not to that enchantress Ease With seeming smile; her palatable cup By standing grows insipid; and beware Perdition, for there's poison in the lees. What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd! What daily martyrs to her sluggish cause! Less strict devoir the Russ and Persian claim Despotic; and, as subjects long inur'd To servile burden, grow supine and tame :— So fares it with our sovʼreign, and her train.

What tho' with lure fallacious she pretend From worldly bondage to set free; what gain Her votaries? What avails from iron chains Exempt, if rosy fetters bind as fast?

Bestir, and answer your creation's end. Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd, And room to stretch, was destin'd to sit still? Sluggards are Nature's rebels, slight her laws, Nor live up to the terms on which they hold Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard! But such the tenure of our earthly state! Riches and fame are industry's reward; The nimble runner courses Fortune down, And then he banquets, for she feeds the bold.

Think what you owe your country, what yourself,

If splendor charm not, yet avoid the scorn
That treads on lowly stations. Think of some

Assiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with saucy grandeur looking down:
Think of (Reflection's stab !) the pitying friend
With shoulder shrugg'd, and sorry. Think that
Time

Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:
And if some sad example, indolent,
To warn and scare be wanting-think of me.

EPISTLE XVIII.

ΤΟ

His Friend and Neighbour

DR. THOMAS TAYLOR.

WRITTEN IN M DCC XLIV.

By the Same.

FRENCH pow'r, and weak allies, and war, and want-
No more of that, my friend; you touch a string
That hurts my ear. All politics apart,
Except a gen'rous wish, a glowing pray'r
For British welfare, commerce, glory, peace.
Give party to the winds: it is a word,
A phantom sound, by which the cunning great
Whistle to their dependents: a decoy,
To gull th' unwary: where the master stands
Encouraging his minions, his train'd birds,
Fed and caress'd, their species to betray.
See, with what hollow blandishment and art
They lead the winged captives to the snare;
Fools! that in open aether might have soar'd,
Free as the air they cut; sipt purest rills
Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in crystal lakes.