Not that this lust of pomp would be so ill,
Could we, like Joshua, bid the sun stand still;
Or to our wishes set a certain bound,

Stop when we reach it, nor aspire beyond:
But here not more than foolish children wise,
Who covet every star that decks the skies;
The skies appear to their unjudging sight
As resting on yon hill's aspiring height;
The little wantons pant and glow with joy,
Eager to gather up each sparkling toy;
Their breasts in vain a nearer hope inspires,
The moving sky, as they advance, retires;
Till, having gain'd the summit, they deplore
The flying stars as distant as before:

Than these no wiser we our wishes bound,
The bound we find, Content is never found;
Still we toil on in warning Nature's spite,
Fix no horizon to our appetite;

Run the same round with never resting haste,
Till death the' enchanted circle bursts at last,
Wouldst thou be bless'd? Thy false desires resign;
Now, now retire; the future is not thine:
Dare to be wise; for he that here delays,
The clown upon the river margin stays
Expecting till the passing stream be dried,
Still glides the passing stream, and will for ever
glide.

But how retire? Shall we, like Timon, fly
From all mankind, and in a desert die?
In fretful pique, or indolence, forego
Life's various duty and its comforts too?

Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis: at ille
Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.

Hor. 2 Epist. L. i.

Each kindly seed of social joy suppress,
No friend to comfort, and no child to bless?
A brother's bliss not feel, nor wants relieve,
And Heaven's own gifts unthankfully receive?
Man's common nature, common good resign'd,
The wretched expletives of human kind?

Or, say, too liberal for ascetic hate,
Shall we Statilius' bounties imitate?
Think to retire but to forsake the town,
And carry all its noise and nonsense down?
Unfelt the rapture of the silent hour,

No shade sequester'd sought, no thoughtful bower;
Drive sage Reflection from her favour'd groves,
Haunts of mad bacchanals and lawless loves;
With Riot's voice bid every echo ring,

And fright the Muses from their wood and spring?
Oh! 'twixt the mad extreme on either side
Let wisdom lead us, or let C-d guide.
Above the vanity of greatness great,
His decent life even sanctifies retreat:
By him superior wealth is understood
But a superior order to do good;

Hence the deserving poor receive their part,
Large like his fortunes, liberal as his heart.
Strong manly sense adorns his open mind,
And much he knows, and knows for all mankind;
Lover of justice, faithful to the laws,
The person he respects not, but the cause;
Hence from litigious suits and quarrels free
Contending parties hear him, and agree.
The general good thus studious to improve,
The common parent claims our common love.
Fair, wise, and good, his all accomplish'd race
Each virtue emulate, reflect each grace;

Hence the pure flow of private happiness,
And he lives bless'd by all who lives to bless :
These joys in Spargrove's sweet retreat he found,
And all the cheerful country smiles around.

Ye venerable groves, whose opening glades
Invite the museful wanderer to your shades!
Ye birds, whose honied notes enthral the ear,
Wake the bright morn, the darksome evening cheer!
Ye fountains, murmuring music as you flow!
Ye flowers, that on their purple margins glow!
Ye winds, that o'er those flowers soft breathing play,
Calm the hot sky, and mitigate the day!
Take me, O, take me to your loved retreats;
All, all conspire to bless me with your sweets!
Here in your soft enclosure let me prove
The shade and silence of the life I love!
Not idle here; for as I rove along

I form the verse and meditate the song;
Or mend my mind by what the wise have taught,
Studious to be the very thing I ought:
Here will I taste the blessings of content,
No hope shall flatter, and no fear torment;
Unlike the sea, the sport of every wind,
And rich with wrecks, the ruin of mankind,
My life an honest, humble praise shall claim,
As the small stream, scarce honour'd with a name,
Whose gladdening waters through my garden play,
Give a few flowers to smile, then glide away.

REV. R. POTTER.

AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.

CLARINDA, dearly loved, attend
The counsels of a faithful friend;
Who, with the warmest wishes fraught,
Feels all, at least, that friendship ought!
But since, by ruling Heaven's design,
Another's fate shall influence thine;
O! may these lines for him prepare
A bliss which I would die to share.

Man may for wealth or glory roam,
But woman must be bless'd at home;
To this should all her studies tend,
This her great object and her end.
Distaste unmingled pleasures bring,
And use can blunt affliction's sting;
Hence perfect bliss no mortals know,
And few are plunged in utter woe;
While nature, arm'd against despair,
Gives power to mend, or strength to bear;
And half the thought content may gain,
Which spleen employs to purchase pain.
Trace not the fair domestic plan

From what you would, but what you can! Nor, peevish, spurn the scanty store, Because you think you merit more!

Bliss ever differs in degree,

Thy share alone is meant for thee;

And thou shouldst think, however small,
That share enough, for 'tis thy all:
Vain scorn will aggravate distress,
And only make that little less.

Admit whatever trifles come,
Units compose the largest sum;

O! tell them o'er, and say how vain
Are those which form ambition's train :
Which swell the monarch's gorgeous state,
And bribe to ill the guilty great!

But thou more bless'd, more wise than these,
Shalt build up happiness on ease.

Hail sweet content! where joy serene

Gilds the mild soul's unruffled scene;
And, with blithe fancy's pencil wrought,
Spreads the white web of flowing thought;
Shines lovely in the cheerful face,

And clothes each charm with native grace;
Effusion pure of bliss sincere,
A vestment for a god to wear.

Far other ornaments compose

The garb that shrouds dissembled woes,
Pieced out with motley dyes and sorts,
Freaks, whimsies, festivals, and sports;
The troubled mind's fantastic dress,
Which madness titles happiness.
While the gay wretch to revels bears
The pale remains of sighs and tears;
And seeks in crowds, like her undone,
What only can be found in one.

But, chief, my gentle friend! remove
Far from thy couch seducing love!
O! shun the false magician's art,
Nor trust thy yet unguarded heart!
Charm'd by his spells fair honour flies,
And thousand treacherous phantoms rise:
Where guilt in beauty's ray beguiles,
And ruin lurks in friendship's smiles.