EPISTLE XVII.

TO THE

Worthy, Humane, Generous, Reverend, and Noble,
FREDERICK CORNWALLIS,

[Late Archbishop of Canterbury.]

BY SNEYD DAVIES, D. D.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCC LXIII.

In frolick's hour, ere serious thought had birth,
There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when
Fancy would take me on her airy wing
And waft to views romantic; there display
Some motley vision, shade and sun: the cliff,
O'erhanging sparkling brooks and ruins grey,
Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.

Sometimes ambition, brushing by, would twitch My spirits, and with winning look sublime Allure to follow. What though steep the track, Her mountain's top would overpay, when climb'd, The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine, And lovely thence the prospects. She could tell

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 scen
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 strea And Saunter with a book; and warbling Mus In praise of hawthorns.-Life's whole business 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 re
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.

Time

Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd:
And if some sad example, indolent,

Think that

To warn and scare be wanting-think of me.