Most part an empty ineffectual found,
What chance that I, to fame fo little known,
Nor converfant with men or manners much,
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope
Crack the fatiric thong? 'Twere wiser far
For me, enamour'd of fequefter'd fcenes,
And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose,
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine,
My languid limbs, when fummer fears the plains;
Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft

And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air
Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth;
There, undisturb'd by Folly, and apprised
How great the danger of disturbing her,
To mufe in filence, or at least confine
Remarks that gall fo many, to the few
My partners in retreat. Difguft conceal'd
Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obftinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Domestic Happiness, thou only blifs
Of Paradife that has furvived the fall!
Though few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preferve thy fweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of Virtue in thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm

Of Novelty, her fickle, frail fupport;

For thou art meek and conftant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!
Till prostitution elbows us afide

In all our crowded streets; and fenates feem
Convened for purposes of empire less

Than to release the adultrefs from her bond.
The adultrefs! what a theme for angry verfe!
What provocation to the indignant heart,
That feels for injured love! but I disdain
The nauseous task, to paint her as she is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame!
No:-Let her pafs, and, charioted along
In guilty splendour, shake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white!
And verfe of mine shall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now, of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not ashamed to own.
Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time
Not to be paff'd and she that had renounced
Her fex's honour, was renounced herself
By all that prized it; not for prudery's fake,
But dignity's, refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif,
Defirous to return, and not received;

But was a wholesome rigour in the main,
And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care
That purity, whofe lofs was loss of all.

Men too were nice in honour in those days,

And he that sharp'd,

And judged offenders well.

And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,

Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that fold His country, or was flack when the required.

His

every nerve in action and at stretch, Paid, with the blood that he had bafely fpared,

The price of his default. But now, yes, now
We are become fo candid and so fair,
So liberal in conftruction, and fo rich
In christian charity, (good-natured age!)
That they are fafe, finners of either sex,
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well dreff'd,
well bred,

Well equipaged, is ticket good enough
To pafs us readily through every door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet),
May claim this merit ftill-that she admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause ;
But he has burnt her mafk, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And fpecious femblances have loft their use.

I was a ftricken deer, that left the herd
Long fince with many an arrow deep infix'd
My panting fide was charged, when I withdrew,
To feek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his fide he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force foliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live,

Since then, with few affociates, in remote
And filent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few affociates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray,
Each in his own delufions; they are loft
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream enfues;
And still they dream, that they shall still fucceed;
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I fum up half mankind,
And add two thirds of the remainder half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay
As if created only like the fly

That spreads his motley wings in the eye

of noon,

To sport their season, and be seen no more.
The reft are fober dreamers, grave and wife,
And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the rant
A history describe the man, of whom
His own coevals took but little note;
And paint his person, character, and views,
As they had known him from his mother's womb.
They disentangle from the puzzled skein,
In which obfcurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and fhrewd design,
That ran through all his purposes, and charge

His mind with meanings that he never had,
Or having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore
The folid earth, and from the ftrata there
Extract a register, by which we learn,
That He who made it, and reveal'd its date
To Mofes, was mistaken in its age.

Some, more acute, and more induftrious still,
Contrive creation; travel nature up

To the sharp peak of her fublimeft height,
And tell us whence the ftars: why fome are fix'd,
And planetary fome; what gave them first
Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light.
Great conteft follows, and much learned dust
Involves the combatants; each claiming truth,
And truth disclaiming both. And thus they fpend
The little wick of life's poor fhallow lamp
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums
Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the fight
Of oracles like these? Great pity too,

That having wielded the elements, and built
A thousand fyftems, each in his own way,
They should go out in fume, and be forgot?
Ah! what is life thus fpent? and what are they
But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke-
Eternity for bubbles proves at last

A fenfelefs bargain. When I fee fuch games
Play'd by the creatures of a Power who fwears
That he will judge the earth, and call the fool
To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain ;
And when I weigh this feeming wisdom well,