The weary steps of mis'ry to attend,
To share distress, and make a wretch thy friend.
If o'er the mountain's snowy height we stray,
Where Carthage first explor'd the vent'rous way;
Or through the tainted air of Rome's parch'd plains,
Where Want resides, and Superstition reigns;
Chearful and unrepining, still you bear
Each dangerous rigor of the various year;
And kindly anxious for thy friend alone,
Lament his suff'rings, and forget thy own.
Oh! would kind Heav'n, these tedious suff'rings past,
Permit me Ickworth, rest, and health at last,
In that lov'd shade, my youth's delightful seat,
My early pleasure, and my late retreat,
Where lavish Nature's favorite blessings flow,
And all the Seasons all their sweets bestow;
There might I trifle carelessly away
The milder evening of life's clouded day,
From bus'ness and the world's intrusion free,
With books, with love, with beauty, and with thee
No farther want, no wish yet unpossest
Could e'er disturb this unambitious breast.
Let those who Fortune's shining gifts implore,
Who sue for glory, splendor, wealth, or pow'r,
View this unactive state with scornful eyes,
And pleasures they can never taste, despise ;
Let them still court that goddess' falser joys,
Who, while she grants their pray'r, their peace de-
stroys.
I envy not the foremost of the great,
Not Walpole's self, directing Europe's fate;
Still let him load Ambition's thorny shrine,
Fame be his. portion, and contentment mine.
But if the gods, sinister still, deny
To live in Ickworth, let me there but die;
Thy hand to close my eyes in death's long night,
Thy image to attract their latest sight:
Then to the grave attend thy poet's herse,
And love his mem'ry as you lov'd his verse.
FROM HAMPTON-COURT, 1731.
Bono loco res humanae sunt, quod nemo, nisi vitio suo, miser est.
WHILST in the fortunes of the gay and great,
The glare of courts, and luxury of state;
All that the meaner covet and deplore,
The pomp of wealth, and insolence of pow'r!
Whilst in these various scenes of gilded life,
Of fraud, ambition, policy, and strife;
Where every word is dictated by art,
And every face the mask of every heart;
Whilst with such diff'rent objects entertain'd,
In all that's really felt, and all that's feign'd,
I speculate on human joys and woes,
'Till from my pen the verse spontaneous flows;
To whom these artless off'rings should I bring,
To whom these undigested numbers sing,
But to a friend?—and to what friend but You,
Safe, just, sincere, indulgent, kind, and true?
Disdain not then these trifles to attend,
Nor fear to blame, nor study to commend.
Say, where false notions erring I pursue,
And with the plausible confound the true :
Correct with all the freedom that I write ;
And guide my darken'd reason with thy light.
Thee partial heaven has bless'd profusely kind,
With wit, with judgment, and a taste refin'd.
Thy fancy rich, and thy observance true,
The last still wakeful, and the first still new.
Rare blessings! and to few divided known,
But giv'n united to thyself alone.
Instruction are thy words, and lively truth,
The school of age, and the delight of youth.
When men their various discontents relate, And tell how wretched this our mortal state; That life is but diversify'd distress,
The lot of all, and hardly more or less;
That kings and villagers have each their share,
These pinch'd with mean, and those with splendid
That seeming pleasure is intrinsic woe,
And all call'd happiness, delusive show;
Food only for the snakes in Envy's breast,
Who often grudges what is ne'er possest ;
Say, for thou know'st the follies of mankind,
Canst tell how obstinate, perverse, and blind;
Say, are we thus oppress'd by Nature's laws,
Or of our miseries, ourselves the cause?
Sure oft, unjustly, we impute to Fate
A thousand ills which we ourselves create;
Complain that life affords but little joy,
And yet that little foolishly destroy.
We check the pleasures that too soon subside,
And break the current of too weak a tide :
Like Atalanta, golden trifles chase,
And baulk that swiftness which might win the race; For life has joys adapted to each stage,
Love for our youth, ambition for our age.
But wilful man inverting her decrees,
When young would govern, and when old would please,
Covets the fruits his autumn should bestow,
Nor tastes the fragranee whilst the blossoms blow.
Then far-fled joys in vain he would restore,
His appetite unanswer'd by his pow'r:
Round beauty's neck he twists his wither'd arms:
Receiv'd with loathing to her venal charms :
He rakes the ashes, when the fire is spent,
Nor gains fruition, though he gain consent.
But can we say 'tis Providence's fault,
If this untimely all her gifts are sought,
If summer-crops which must decay we keep,
And in the winter would the harvest reap?
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