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Each useful passion taught, its tone design'd,

In the nice concord of a well-tun'd mind.

Does mean self-love contract each social aim?
Here public transports shall thy soul inflame.
Virtue and Deity supremely fair,

Too oft delineated with looks severe,

Resume their native smiles and graces here:
Sooth'd into love relenting foes admire,
And warmer raptures every friend inspire.

Such are the fruits which from retirement spring:
These blessings ease and learned leisure bring.

Yet of the various tasks mankind employ, 'Tis sure the hardest, leisure to enjoy.

For one who knows to taste this god-like bliss,
What countless swarms of vain pretenders miss ?
Though each dull plodding thing, to ape the wise,
Ridiculously grave, for leisure sighs,

(His boasted wish from busy scenes to ru )
Grant him that leisure, and the fool's undone.
The gods, to curse poor Demea, heard his vow,
And business now no more contracts his brow:
Nor real cares, 'tis true, perplex his breast,

But thousand fancied ills his

peace

molest;

The slightest trifles solid sorrows prove,

And the long ling'ring wheel of life scarce seems to

move.

Useless in business, yet unfit for ease,

Nor skill'd to mend mankind, nor form'd to please,

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Such spurious animals of worthless race

Live but the public burthen and disgrace :
Like mean attendants on life's stage are seen,
Drawn forth to fill, but not conduct the scene.

The mind not taught to think, no useful store To fix reflection, dreads the vacant hour. Turn'd on its self its numerous wants are seen, And all the mighty void that lies within. Yet cannot wisdom stamp our joys complete; 'Tis conscious virtue crowns the blest retreat. Who feels not that, the private path must shun; And fly to public view t' escape his own; In life's gay scenes uneasy thoughts suppress, And lull each anxious care in dreams of peace. 'Midst foreign objects not employ'd to roam, Thought, sadly active, still corrodes at home: A serious moment breaks the false repose, And guilt in all its naked horror shows.

He who would know retirement's joy refin'd, The fair recess must seek with cheerful mind : No Cynic's pride, no bigot's heated brain, No frustrate hope, nor love's fantastic pain, With him must enter the sequester'd cell, Who means with pleasing solitude to dwell; But equal passions let his bosom rule, A judgment candid, and a temper cool, Enlarg'd with knowledge, and in conscience clear, Above life's empty hopes, and death's vain fear.

Such he must be who greatly lives alone;
Such Portio is, in crowded scenes unknown.
For public life with every talent born,
Portio far off retires with decent scorn;
Though without business, never unemploy'd,
And life, as more at leisure, more enjoy'd :
For who like him can various science taste,
His mind shall never want an endless feast.
In his blest ev'ning walk may'st thou, may I,
Oft friendly join in sweet society;

Our lives like his in one smooth current flow,
Nor swell'd with tempest, nor too calmly slow,
Whilst he, like some great sage of Rome or Greece,
Shall calm each rising doubt, and speak us peace,
Correct each thought, each wayward wish control,
And stamp with every virtue all the soul.

Ah! how unlike is Umbrio's gloomy scene,
Estrang'd from all the cheerful ways of men!
There superstition works her baneful pow'r,
And darkens all the melancholy hour.
Unnumber'd fears corrode and haunt his breast,
With all that whim or ign'rance can suggest.
In vain for him kind nature pours her sweets;
The visionary saint no joy admits,

But seeks with pious spleen fantastic woes,

And for heav'n's sake heav'n's offer'd good foregoes.

Whate'er's our choice we still with pride prefer, And all who deviate, vainly think must err :

Clodio, in books and abstract notions lost,
Sees none but knaves and fools in honor's post;
Whilst Syphax, fond on fortune's sea to sail,
And boldly drive before the flatt'ring gale
(Forward her dang'rous ocean to explore),
Condemns as cowards those who make the shore.
Not so my friend impartial,—man he views
Useful in what he shuns as what pursues;
Sees different turns to general good conspire,
The hero's passion and the poet's fire;
Each figure plac'd in nature's wise design,
With true proportion and exactest line :
Sees lights and shades unite in due degree,
And form the whole with fairest symmetry.

EPISTLE III.

LIFE BURDENSOME,

BECAUSE

WE KNOW NOT HOW TO USE IT.

BY EDWARD ROLLE, B. D.

WHAT? sir,-a month, and not one line afford!
'Tis well:-how finely some folk keep their word!
I own my promise-But to steal an hour,
'Midst all this hurry-'tis not in my pow'r,
Where life each day does one fix'd order keep,
Successive journies, weariness and sleep.

Or if our scheme some interval allows,
Some hours design'd for thought and for repose;
Soon as the scatter'd images begin

In the mind to rally-company comes in:
Reason, adieu! there's no more room to think;
For all the day behind is noise and drink.
Thus life rolls on, but not without regret ;
Whene'er at morning, in some cool retreat
I walk alone:-'tis then in thought I view
Some sage of old; 'tis then I think of
уон;

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