RETIREMENT
.
—
studiis
florens
ignobilis
oti
.
VIRG.
GEOR
.
LIB.
4.
HACKNEY'D
in
business
,
wearied
at
that
oar
Which
thousands
once
fast
chain'd
to
,
quit
no
more
,
But
which
when
life
at
ebb
runs
weak
and
low
,
All
wish
,
or
seem
to
wish
they
could
forego
,
The
statesman
,
lawyer
,
merchant
,
man
of
trade
,
Pants
for
the
refuge
of
some
rural
shade
,
Where
all
his
long
anxieties
forgot
Amid
the
charms
of
a
sequester'd
spot
,
Or
recollected
only
to
gild
o'er
And
add
a
smile
to
what
was
sweet
before
,
He
may
possess
the
joys
he
thinks
he
sees
,
Lay
his
old
age
upon
the
lap
of
ease
,
Improve
the
remnant
of
his
wasted
span
,
And
having
liv'd
a
trifler
,
die
a
man
.
Thus
conscience
pleads
her
cause
within
the
breast
,
Though
long
rebell'd
against
,
not
yet
suppress'd
,
And
calls
a
creature
formed
for
God
alone
,
For
heaven's
high
purposes
and
not
his
own
,
Calls
him
away
from
selfish
ends
and
aims
,
From
what
debilitates
and
what
inflames
,
From
cities
humming
with
a
restless
crowd
,
Sordid
as
active
,
ignorant
as
loud
,
Whose
highest
praise
is
that
they
live
in
vain
,
The
dupes
of
pleasure
,
or
the
slaves
of
gain
,
Where
works
of
man
are
cluster'd
close
around
,
And
works
of
God
are
hardly
to
be
found
,
To
regions
where
in
spite
of
sin
and
woe
,
Traces
of
Eden
are
still
seen
below
,
Where
mountain
,
river
,
forest
,
field
and
grove
,
Remind
him
of
his
Maker's
pow'r
and
love
.
'Tis
well
if
look'd
for
at
so
late
a
day
,
In
the
last
scene
of
such
a
senseless
play
,
True
wisdom
will
attend
his
feeble
call
,
And
grace
his
action
e'er
the
curtain
fall
.
Souls
that
have
long
despised
their
heav'nly
birth
,
Their
wishes
all
impregnated
with
earth
,
For
threescore
years
employed
with
ceaseless
care
,
In
catching
smoke
and
feeding
upon
air
,
Conversant
only
with
the
ways
of
men
,
Rarely
redeem
the
short
remaining
ten
.
Invet'rate
habits
choak
th'
unfruitful
heart
,
Their
fibres
penetrate
its
tend'rest
part
,
And
draining
its
nutritious
pow'rs
to
feed
Their
noxious
growth
,
starve
ev'ry
better
seed
.
Happy
if
full
of
days
—
but
happier
far
If
e'er
we
yet
discern
life's
evening
star
,
Sick
of
the
service
of
a
world
that
feeds
Its
patient
drudges
with
dry
chaff
and
weeds
,
We
can
escape
from
custom's
ideot
sway
,
To
serve
the
sov'reign
we
were
born
t'
obey
.
Then
sweet
to
muse
upon
his
skill
display'd
(
Infinite
skill
)
in
all
that
he
has
made
!
To
trace
in
nature's
most
minute
design
,
The
signature
and
stamp
of
pow'r
divine
,
Contrivance
intricate
express'd
with
ease
Where
unassisted
sight
no
beauty
sees
,
The
shapely
limb
and
lubricated
joint
,
Within
the
small
dimensions
of
a
point
,
Muscle
and
nerve
miraculously
spun
,
His
mighty
work
who
speaks
and
it
is
done
,
Th'
invisible
in
things
scarce
seen
reveal'd
,
To
whom
an
atom
is
an
ample
field
.
To
wonder
at
a
thousand
insect
forms
,
These
hatch'd
,
and
those
resuscitated
worms
,
New
life
ordain'd
and
brighter
scenes
to
share
,
Once
prone
on
earth
,
now
buoyant
upon
air
,
Whose
shape
would
make
them
,
had
they
bulk
and
size
,
More
hideous
foes
than
fancy
can
devise
,
With
helmed
heads
and
dragon
scales
adorn'd
,
The
mighty
myriads
,
now
securely
scorn'd
,
Would
mock
the
majesty
of
man's
high
birth
,
Despise
his
bulwarks
and
unpeople
earth
.
Then
with
a
glance
of
fancy
to
survey
,
Far
as
the
faculty
can
stretch
away
,
Ten
thousand
rivers
poured
at
his
command
From
urns
that
never
fail
through
ev'ry
land
,
These
like
a
deluge
with
impetuous
force
,
Those
winding
modestly
a
silent
course
,
The
cloud-surmounting
alps
,
the
fruitful
vales
,
Seas
on
which
ev'ry
nation
spreads
her
sails
,
The
sun
,
a
world
whence
other
worlds
drink
light
,
The
crescent
moon
,
the
diadem
of
night
,
Stars
countless
,
each
in
his
appointed
place
,
Fast-anchor'd
in
the
deep
abyss
of
space
—
At
such
a
sight
to
catch
the
poet's
flame
,
And
with
a
rapture
like
his
own
exclaim
,
These
are
thy
glorious
works
,
thou
source
of
good
,
How
dimly
seen
,
how
faintly
understood
!
—
Thine
,
and
upheld
by
thy
paternal
care
,
This
universal
frame
,
thus
wond'rous
fair
;
Thy
pow'r
divine
and
bounty
beyond
thought
,
Ador'd
and
prais'd
in
all
that
thou
hast
wrought
.
Absorbed
in
that
immensity
I
see
,
I
shrink
abased
,
and
yet
aspire
to
thee
;
Instruct
me
,
guide
me
to
that
heav'nly
day
,
Thy
words
,
more
clearly
than
thy
works
display
,
That
while
thy
truths
my
grosser
thoughts
refine
,
I
may
resemble
thee
and
call
thee
mine
.
Oh
blest
proficiency
!
surpassing
all
That
men
erroneously
their
glory
call
,
The
recompence
that
arts
or
arms
can
yield
,
The
bar
,
the
senate
or
the
tented
field
.
Compar'd
with
this
sublimest
life
below
,
Ye
kings
and
rulers
what
have
courts
to
show
?
Thus
studied
,
used
and
consecrated
thus
,
Whatever
is
,
seems
form'd
indeed
for
us
,
Not
as
the
plaything
of
a
froward
child
,
Fretful
unless
diverted
and
beguiled
,
Much
less
to
feed
and
fan
the
fatal
fires
Of
pride
,
ambition
or
impure
desires
,
But
as
a
scale
by
which
the
soul
ascends
From
mighty
means
to
more
important
ends
,
Securely
,
though
by
steps
but
rarely
trod
,
Mounts
from
inferior
beings
up
to
God
,
And
sees
by
no
fallacious
light
or
dim
,
Earth
made
for
man
,
and
man
himself
for
him
.
Not
that
I
mean
t'
approve
,
or
would
inforce
A
superstitious
and
monastic
course
:
Truth
is
not
local
,
God
alike
pervades
And
fills
the
world
of
traffic
and
the
shades
,
And
may
be
fear'd
amid
the
busiest
scenes
,
Or
scorn'd
where
business
never
intervenes
.
But
'tis
not
easy
with
a
mind
like
ours
,
Conscious
of
weakness
in
its
noblest
pow'rs
,
And
in
a
world
where
(
other
ills
apart
)
The
roving
eye
misleads
the
careless
heart
,
To
limit
thought
,
by
nature
prone
to
stray
Wherever
freakish
fancy
points
the
way
,
To
bid
the
pleadings
of
self-love
be
still
,
Resign
our
own
and
seek
our
maker's
will
,
To
spread
the
page
of
scripture
,
and
compare
Our
conduct
with
the
laws
engraven
there
,
To
measure
all
that
passes
in
the
breast
,
Faithfully
,
fairly
,
by
that
sacred
test
,
To
dive
into
the
secret
deeps
within
,
To
spare
no
passion
and
no
fav'rite
sin
,
And
search
the
themes
important
above
all
,
Ourselves
and
our
recov'ry
from
our
fall
.
But
leisure
,
silence
,
and
a
mind
releas'd
From
anxious
thoughts
how
wealth
may
be
encreas'd
,
How
to
secure
in
some
propitious
hour
,
The
point
of
int'rest
or
the
post
of
power
,
A
soul
serene
,
and
equally
retired
,
From
objects
too
much
dreaded
or
desired
,
Safe
from
the
clamours
of
perverse
dispute
,
At
least
are
friendly
to
the
great
pursuit
.
Op'ning
the
map
of
God's
extensive
plan
,
We
find
a
little
isle
,
this
life
of
man
,
Eternity's
unknown
expanse
appears
Circling
around
and
limiting
his
years
;
The
busy
race
examine
and
explore
Each
creek
and
cavern
of
the
dang'rous
shore
,
With
care
collect
what
in
their
eyes
excells
,
Some
,
shining
pebbles
,
and
some
,
weeds
and
shells
,
Thus
laden
dream
that
they
are
rich
and
great
,
And
happiest
he
that
groans
beneath
his
weight
;
The
waves
o'ertake
them
in
their
serious
play
,
And
ev'ry
hour
sweep
multitudes
away
,
They
shriek
and
sink
,
survivors
start
and
weep
,
Pursue
their
sport
,
and
follow
to
the
deep
;
A
few
forsake
the
throng
,
with
lifted
eyes
Ask
wealth
of
heav'n
,
and
gain
a
real
prize
,
Truth
,
wisdom
,
grace
,
and
peace
like
that
above
,
Seal'd
with
his
signet
whom
they
serve
and
love
;
Scorn'd
by
the
rest
,
with
patient
hope
they
wait
A
kind
release
from
their
imperfect
state
,
And
unregretted
are
soon
snatch'd
away
From
scenes
of
sorrow
into
glorious
day
.
Nor
these
alone
prefer
a
life
recluse
,
Who
seek
retirement
for
its
proper
use
,
The
love
of
change
that
lives
in
ev'ry
breast
,
Genius
,
and
temper
,
and
desire
of
rest
,
Discordant
motives
in
one
center
meet
,
And
each
inclines
it's
vot'ry
to
retreat
.
Some
minds
by
nature
are
averse
to
noise
.
And
hate
the
tumult
half
the
world
enjoys
,
The
lure
of
av'rice
,
or
the
pompous
prize
That
courts
display
before
ambitious
eyes
,
The
fruits
that
hang
on
pleasure's
flow'ry
stem
,
Whate'er
enchants
them
are
no
snares
to
them
.
To
them
the
deep
recess
of
dusky
groves
,
Or
forest
where
the
deer
securely
roves
,
The
fall
of
waters
and
the
song
of
birds
,
And
hills
that
echo
to
the
distant
herds
,
Are
luxuries
excelling
all
the
glare
The
world
can
boast
,
and
her
chief
fav'rites
share
.
With
eager
step
and
carelessly
array'd
,
For
such
a
cause
the
poet
seeks
the
shade
,
From
all
he
sees
he
catches
new
delight
,
Pleas'd
fancy
claps
her
pinions
at
the
sight
,
The
rising
or
the
setting
orb
of
day
,
The
clouds
that
flit
,
or
slowly
float
away
,
Nature
in
all
the
various
shapes
she
wears
,
Frowning
in
storms
,
or
breathing
gentle
airs
,
The
snowy
robe
her
wintry
state
assumes
,
Her
summer
heats
,
her
fruits
,
and
her
perfumes
,
All
,
all
alike
transport
the
glowing
bard
,
Success
in
rhime
his
glory
and
reward
.
Oh
nature
!
whose
Elysian
scenes
disclose
His
bright
perfections
at
whose
word
they
rose
,
Next
to
that
pow'r
who
form'd
thee
and
sustains
,
Be
thou
the
great
inspirer
of
my
strains
.
Still
as
I
touch
the
lyre
,
do
thou
expand
Thy
genuine
charms
,
and
guide
an
artless
hand
,
That
I
may
catch
a
fire
but
rarely
known
,
Give
useful
light
though
I
should
miss
renown
,
And
poring
on
thy
page
,
whose
ev'ry
line
Bears
proof
of
an
intelligence
divine
,
May
feel
an
heart
enrich'd
by
what
it
pays
,
That
builds
its
glory
on
its
Maker's
praise
.
Woe
to
the
man
whose
wit
disclaims
its
use
,
Glitt'ring
in
vain
,
or
only
to
seduce
,
Who
studies
nature
with
a
wanton
eye
,
Admires
the
work
,
but
slips
the
lesson
by
,
His
hours
of
leisure
and
recess
employs
,
In
drawing
pictures
of
forbidden
joys
,
Retires
to
blazon
his
own
worthless
name
,
Or
shoot
the
careless
with
a
surer
aim
.
The
lover
too
shuns
business
and
alarms
,
Tender
idolator
of
absent
charms
.
Saints
offer
nothing
in
their
warmest
prayr's
,
That
he
devotes
not
with
a
zeal
like
theirs
;
'Tis
consecration
of
his
heart
,
soul
,
time
,
And
every
thought
that
wanders
is
a
crime
.
In
sighs
he
worships
his
supremely
fair
,
And
weeps
a
sad
libation
in
despair
,
Adores
a
creature
,
and
devout
in
vain
,
Wins
in
return
an
answer
of
disdain
.
As
woodbine
weds
the
plants
within
her
reach
,
Rough
elm
,
or
smooth-grain'd
ash
,
or
glossy
beech
,
In
spiral
rings
ascends
the
trunk
,
and
lays
Her
golden
tassels
on
the
leafy
sprays
,
But
does
a
mischief
while
she
lends
a
grace
,
Streight'ning
its
growth
by
such
a
strict
embrace
,
So
love
that
clings
around
the
noblest
minds
,
Forbids
th'
advancement
of
the
soul
he
binds
,
The
suitor's
air
indeed
he
soon
improves
,
And
forms
it
to
the
taste
of
her
he
loves
,
Teaches
his
eyes
a
language
,
and
no
less
Refines
his
speech
and
fashions
his
address
;
But
farewell
promises
of
happier
fruits
,
Manly
designs
,
and
learning's
grave
pursuits
,
Girt
with
a
chain
he
cannot
wish
to
break
,
His
only-bliss
is
sorrow
for
her
sake
,
Who
will
may
pant
for
glory
and
excell
,
Her
smile
his
aim
,
all
higher
aims
farewell
!
Thyrsis
,
Alexis
,
or
whatever
name
May
least
offend
against
so
pure
a
flame
,
Though
sage
advice
of
friends
the
most
sincere
,
Sounds
harshly
in
so
delicate
an
ear
,
And
lovers
of
all
creatures
,
tame
or
wild
,
Can
least
brook
management
,
however
mild
,
Yet
let
a
poet
(
poetry
disarms
The
fiercest
animals
with
magic
charms
)
Risque
an
intrusion
on
thy
pensive
mood
,
And
wooe
and
win
thee
to
thy
proper
good
.
Pastoral
images
and
still
retreats
,
Umbrageous
walks
and
solitary
seats
,
Sweet
birds
in
concert
with
harmonious
streams
,
Soft
airs
,
nocturnal
vigils
,
and
day-dreams
,
Are
all
enchantments
in
a
case
like
thine
,
Conspire
against
thy
peace
with
one
design
,
Sooth
thee
to
make
thee
but
a
surer
prey
,
And
feed
the
fire
that
wastes
thy
pow'rs
away
.
Up
—
God
has
formed
thee
with
a
wiser
view
,
Not
to
be
led
in
chains
,
but
to
subdue
,
Calls
thee
to
cope
with
enemies
,
and
first
Points
out
a
conflict
with
thyself
,
the
worst
.
Woman
indeed
,
a
gift
he
would
bestow
When
he
design'd
a
paradise
below
,
The
richest
earthly
boon
his
hands
afford
,
Deserves
to
be
belov'd
,
but
not
ador'd
.
Post
away
swiftly
to
more
active
scenes
,
Collect
the
scatter'd
truths
that
study
gleans
,
Mix
with
the
world
,
but
with
its
wiser
part
,
No
longer
give
an
image
all
thine
heart
,
Its
empire
is
not
her's
,
nor
is
it
thine
,
'Tis
God's
just
claim
,
prerogative
divine
.
Virtuous
and
faithful
HEBERDEN
!
whose
skill
Attempts
no
task
it
cannot
well
fulfill
,
Gives
melancholy
up
to
nature's
care
,
And
sends
the
patient
into
purer
air
.
Look
where
he
comes
—
in
this
embower'd
alcove
,
Stand
close
conceal'd
,
and
see
a
statue
move
:
Lips
busy
,
and
eyes
fixt
,
foot
falling
slow
,
Arms
hanging
idly
down
,
hands
clasp'd
below
,
Interpret
to
the
marking
eye
,
distress
,
Such
as
its
symptoms
can
alone
express
.
That
tongue
is
silent
now
,
that
silent
tongue
Could
argue
once
,
could
jest
or
joint
the
song
,
Could
give
advice
,
could
censure
or
commend
,
Or
charm
the
sorrows
of
a
drooping
friend
.
Renounced
alike
its
office
and
its
sport
,
Its
brisker
and
its
graver
strains
fall
short
,
Both
fail
beneath
a
fever's
secret
sway
,
And
like
a
summer-brook
are
past
away
.
This
is
a
sight
for
pity
to
peruse
'Till
she
resemble
faintly
what
she
views
,
'Till
sympathy
contract
a
kindred
pain
,
Pierced
with
the
woes
that
she
laments
in
vain
.
This
of
all
maladies
that
man
infest
,
Claims
most
compassion
and
receives
the
least
,
Job
felt
it
when
he
groan'd
beneath
the
rod
,
And
the
barbed
arrows
of
a
frowning
God
,
And
such
emollients
as
his
friends
could
spare
,
Friends
such
as
his
for
modern
Jobs
prepare
.
Blest
,
(
rather
curst
)
with
hearts
that
never
feel
,
Kept
snug
in
caskets
of
close-hammer'd
steel
,
With
mouths
made
only
to
grin
wide
and
eat
,
And
minds
that
deem
derided
pain
,
a
treat
,
With
limbs
of
British
oak
and
nerves
of
wire
,
And
wit
that
puppet-prompters
might
inspire
,
Their
sov'reign
nostrum
is
a
clumsy
joke
,
On
pangs
inforc'd
with
God's
severest
stroke
.
But
with
a
soul
that
ever
felt
the
sting
Of
sorrow
,
sorrow
is
a
sacred
thing
,
Not
to
molest
,
or
irritate
,
or
raise
A
laugh
at
its
expence
,
is
slender
praise
;
He
that
has
not
usurp'd
the
name
of
man
.
Does
all
,
and
deems
too
little
,
all
he
can
,
T'
assuage
the
throbbings
of
the
sester'd
part
,
And
staunch
the
bleedings
of
a
broken
heart
;
'Tis
not
as
heads
that
never
ach
suppose
,
Forg'ry
of
fancy
and
a
dream
of
woes
,
Man
is
an
harp
whose
chords
elude
the
sight
,
Each
yielding
harmony
,
disposed
aright
,
The
screws
revers'd
(
a
task
which
if
he
please
God
in
a
moment
executes
with
ease
)
Ten
thousand
thousand
strings
at
once
go
loose
,
Lost
,
'till
he
tune
them
,
all
their
pow'r
and
use
.
Then
neither
heathy
wilds
,
nor
scenes
as
fair
As
ever
recompensed
the
peasant's
care
,
Nor
soft
declivities
with
tufted
hills
,
Nor
view
of
waters
turning
busy
mills
,
Parks
in
which
art
preceptress
nature
weds
,
Nor
gardens
interspers'd
with
flow'ry
beds
,
Nor
gales
that
catch
the
scent
of
blooming
groves
,
And
waft
it
to
the
mourner
as
he
roves
,
Can
call
up
life
into
his
faded
eye
,
That
passes
all
he
sees
unheeded
by
:
No
wounds
like
those
a
wounded
spirit
feels
,
No
cure
for
such
,
'till
God
who
makes
them
,
heals
.
And
thou
sad
suff'rer
under
nameless
ill
,
That
yields
not
to
the
touch
of
human
skill
,
Improve
the
kind
occasion
,
understand
A
father's
frown
,
and
kiss
his
chast'ning
hand
:
To
thee
the
day-spring
and
the
blaze
of
noon
,
The
purple
evening
and
resplendent
moon
,
The
stars
that
sprinkled
o'er
the
vault
of
night
Seem
drops
descending
in
a
show'r
of
light
,
Shine
not
,
or
undesired
and
hated
shine
,
Seen
through
the
medium
of
a
cloud
like
thine
:
Yet
seek
him
,
in
his
favour
life
is
found
,
All
bliss
beside
,
a
shadow
or
a
sound
:
Then
heav'n
eclipsed
so
long
,
and
this
dull
earth
Shall
seem
to
start
into
a
second
birth
,
Nature
assuming
a
more
lovely
face
,
Borrowing
a
beauty
from
the
works
of
grace
,
Shall
be
despised
and
overlook'd
no
more
,
Shall
fill
thee
with
delights
unfelt
before
,
Impart
to
things
inanimate
a
voice
,
And
bid
her
mountains
and
her
hills
rejoice
,
The
sound
shall
run
along
the
winding
vales
,
And
thou
enjoy
an
Eden
e'er
it
fails
.
Ye
groves
(
the
statesman
at
his
desk
exclaims
Sick
of
a
thousand
disappointed
aims
)
My
patrimonial
treasure
and
my
pride
,
Beneath
your
shades
your
gray
possessor
hide
,
Receive
me
languishing
for
that
repose
The
servant
of
the
public
never
knows
.
Ye
saw
me
once
(
ah
those
regretted
days
When
boyish
innocence
was
all
my
praise
)
Hour
after
hour
delightfully
allot
To
studies
then
familiar
,
since
forgot
,
And
cultivate
a
taste
for
antient
song
,
Catching
its
ardour
as
I
mused
along
;
Nor
seldom
,
as
propitious
heav'n
might
send
,
What
once
I
valued
and
could
boast
,
a
friend
,
Were
witnesses
how
cordially
I
press'd
His
undissembling
virtue
to
my
breast
;
Receive
me
now
,
not
uncorrupt
as
then
,
Nor
guiltless
of
corrupting
other
men
,
But
vers'd
in
arts
that
while
they
seem
to
stay
A
falling
empire
,
hasten
its
decay
.
To
the
fair
haven
of
my
native
home
,
The
wreck
of
what
I
was
,
fatigued
I
come
,
For
once
I
can
approve
the
patriot's
voice
,
And
make
the
course
he
recommends
,
my
choice
,
We
meet
at
last
in
one
sincere
desire
,
His
wish
and
mine
both
prompt
me
to
retire
.
'Tis
done
—
he
steps
into
the
welcome
chaise
,
Lolls
at
his
ease
behind
four
handsome
bays
,
That
whirl
away
from
bus'ness
and
debate
,
The
disincumber'd
Atlas
of
the
state
.
Ask
not
the
boy
,
who
when
the
breeze
of
morn
First
shakes
the
glitt'ring
drops
from
ev'ry
thorn
,
Unfolds
his
flock
,
then
under
bank
or
bush
Sits
linking
cherry
stones
or
platting
rush
,
How
fair
is
freedom
?
—
he
was
always
free
—
To
carve
his
rustic
name
upon
a
tree
,
To
snare
the
mole
,
or
with
ill-fashion'd
hook
To
draw
th'
incautious
minnow
from
the
brook
,
Are
life's
prime
pleasures
in
his
simple
view
,
His
flock
the
chief
concern
he
ever
knew
:
She
shines
but
little
in
his
heedless
eyes
,
The
good
we
never
miss
,
we
rarely
prize
.
But
ask
the
noble
drudge
in
state-affairs
,
Escap'd
from
office
and
its
constant
cares
,
What
charms
he
sees
in
freedom's
smile
express'd
,
In
freedom
lost
so
long
,
now
repossess'd
,
The
tongue
whose
strains
were
cogent
as
commands
,
Revered
at
home
,
and
felt
in
foreign
lands
,
Shall
own
itself
a
stamm'rer
in
that
cause
,
Or
plead
its
silence
as
its
best
applause
.
He
knows
indeed
that
whether
dress'd
or
rude
,
Wild
without
art
,
or
artfully
subdued
,
Nature
in
ev'ry
form
inspires
delight
,
But
never
mark'd
her
with
so
just
a
sight
.
Her
hedge
row
shrubs
,
a
variegated
store
,
With
woodbine
and
wild
roses
mantled
o'er
,
Green
baulks
and
furrow'd
lands
,
the
stream
that
spreads
Its
cooling
vapour
o'er
the
dewy
meads
,
Downs
that
almost
escape
th'
enquiring
eye
,
That
melt
and
fade
into
the
distant
skie
,
Beauties
he
lately
slighted
as
he
pass'd
,
Seem
all
created
since
he
travell'd
last
.
Master
of
all
th'
enjoyments
he
design'd
,
No
rough
annoyance
rankling
in
his
mind
,
What
early
philosophic
hours
he
keeps
,
How
regular
his
meals
,
how
sound
he
sleeps
!
Not
sounder
he
that
on
the
mainmast
head
,
While
morning
kindles
with
a
windy
red
,
Begins
a
long
look-out
for
distant
land
,
Nor
quits
till
evening-watch
his
giddy
stand
,
Then
swift
descending
with
a
seaman's
haste
,
Slips
to
his
hammock
,
and
forgets
the
blast
.
He
chuses
company
,
but
not
the
squire's
,
Whose
wit
is
rudeness
,
whose
good
breeding
tires
;
Nor
yet
the
parson's
,
who
would
gladly
come
,
Obsequious
when
abroad
,
though
proud
at
home
,
Nor
can
he
much
affect
the
neighb'ring
peer
,
Whose
toe
of
emulation
treads
too
near
,
But
wisely
seeks
a
more
convenient
friend
,
With
whom
,
dismissing
forms
,
he
may
unbend
,
A
man
whom
marks
of
condescending
grace
Teach
,
while
they
flatter
him
,
his
proper
place
,
Who
comes
when
call'd
,
and
at
a
word
withdraws
,
Speaks
with
reserve
,
and
listens
with
applause
,
Some
plain
mechanic
,
who
without
pretence
To
birth
or
wit
,
nor
gives
nor
takes
offence
,
On
whom
he
rests
well
pleas'd
his
weary
pow'rs
,
And
talks
and
laughs
away
his
vacant
hours
.
The
tide
of
life
,
swift
always
in
its
course
,
May
run
in
cities
with
a
brisker
force
,
But
no
where
with
a
current
so
serene
,
Or
half
so
clear
as
in
the
rural
scene
.
Yet
how
fallacious
is
all
earthly
bliss
,
What
obvious
truths
the
wisest
heads
may
miss
;
Some
pleasures
live
a
month
,
and
some
a
year
,
But
short
the
date
of
all
we
gather
here
,
Nor
happiness
is
felt
,
except
the
true
,
That
does
not
charm
the
more
for
being
new
.
This
observation
,
as
it
chanced
,
not
made
,
Or
if
the
thought
occurr'd
,
not
duely
weigh'd
,
He
sighs
—
for
after
all
,
by
slow
degrees
,
The
spot
he
loved
has
lost
the
pow'r
to
please
;
To
cross
his
ambling
poney
day
by
day
,
Seems
at
the
best
,
but
dreaming
life
away
,
The
prospect
,
such
as
might
enchant
despair
,
He
views
it
not
,
or
sees
no
beauty
there
,
With
aching
heart
and
discontented
looks
,
Returns
at
noon
,
to
billiards
or
to
books
,
But
feels
while
grasping
at
his
faded
joys
,
A
secret
thirst
of
his
renounced
employs
,
He
chides
the
tardiness
of
every
post
,
Pants
to
be
told
of
battles
won
or
lost
,
Blames
his
own
indolence
,
observes
,
though
late
,
'Tis
criminal
to
leave
a
sinking
state
,
Flies
to
the
levee
,
and
receiv'd
with
grace
,
Kneels
,
kisses
hands
,
and
shines
again
in
place
.
Suburban
villas
,
highway-side
retreats
,
That
dread
th'
encroachment
of
our
growing
streets
,
Tight
boxes
,
neatly
sash'd
,
and
in
a
blaze
With
all
a
July
sun's
collected
rays
,
Delight
the
citizen
,
who
gasping
there
Breathes
clouds
of
dust
and
calls
it
country
air
.
Oh
sweet
retirement
,
who
would
baulk
the
thought
,
That
could
afford
retirement
,
or
could
not
?
'Tis
such
an
easy
walk
,
so
smooth
and
strait
,
The
second
milestone
fronts
the
garden
gate
,
A
step
if
fair
,
and
if
a
show'r
approach
,
You
find
safe
shelter
in
the
next
stage-coach
.
There
prison'd
in
a
parlour
snug
and
small
,
Like
bottled
wasps
upon
a
southern
wall
,
The
man
of
bus'ness
and
his
friends
compress'd
,
Forget
their
labours
,
and
yet
find
no
rest
;
But
still
'tis
rural
—
trees
are
to
be
seen
From
ev'ry
window
,
and
the
fields
are
green
,
Ducks
paddle
in
the
pond
before
the
door
,
And
what
could
a
remoter
scene
show
more
?
A
sense
of
elegance
we
rarely
find
The
portion
of
a
mean
or
vulgar
mind
,
And
ignorance
of
better
things
,
makes
man
Who
cannot
much
,
rejoice
in
what
he
can
;
And
he
that
deems
his
leisure
well
bestow'd
In
contemplations
of
a
turnpike
road
,
Is
occupied
as
well
,
employs
his
hours
As
wisely
,
and
as
much
improves
his
pow'rs
,
As
he
that
slumbers
in
pavilion's
graced
With
all
the
charms
of
an
accomplish'd
taste
.
Yet
hence
alas
!
Insolvencies
,
and
hence
Th'
unpitied
victim
of
ill-judg'd
expence
,
From
all
his
wearisome
engagements
freed
,
Shakes
hands
with
bus'ness
,
and
retires
indeed
.
Your
prudent
grand
mammas
ye
modern
belles
,
Content
with
Bristol
,
Bath
,
and
Tunbridge-wells
,
When
health
requir'd
it
would
consent
to
roam
,
Else
more
attach'd
to
pleasures
found
at
home
.
But
now
alike
,
gay
widow
,
virgin
,
wife
,
Ingenious
to
diversify
dull
life
,
In
coaches
,
chaises
,
caravans
and
hoys
,
Fly
to
the
coast
for
daily
,
nightly
joys
,
And
all
impatient
of
dry
land
,
agree
With
one
consent
to
rush
into
the
sea
.
—
Ocean
exhibits
,
fathomless
and
broad
,
Much
of
the
pow'r
and
majesty
of
God
.
He
swathes
about
the
swelling
of
the
deep
,
That
shines
and
rests
,
as
infants
smile
and
sleep
,
Vast
as
it
is
,
it
answers
as
it
flows
The
breathings
of
the
lightest
air
that
blows
,
Curling
and
whit'ning
over
all
the
waste
,
The
rising
waves
obey
th'
increasing
blast
,
Abrupt
and
horrid
as
the
tempest
roars
,
Thunder
and
flash
upon
the
stedfast
shores
,
'Till
he
that
rides
the
whirlwind
,
checks
the
rein
,
Then
,
all
the
world
of
waters
sleeps
again
.
—
Nereids
or
Dryads
,
as
the
fashion
leads
,
Now
in
the
floods
,
now
panting
in
the
meads
,
Vot'ries
of
pleasure
still
,
where'er
she
dwells
,
Near
barren
rocks
,
in
palaces
or
cells
,
Oh
grant
a
poet
leave
to
recommend
,
(
A
poet
fond
of
nature
and
your
friend
)
Her
slighted
works
to
your
admiring
view
,
Her
works
must
needs
excel
,
who
fashion'd
you
.
Would
ye
,
when
rambling
in
your
morning
ride
,
With
some
unmeaning
coxcomb
at
your
side
,
Condemn
the
prattler
for
his
idle
pains
,
To
waste
unheard
the
music
of
his
strains
,
And
deaf
to
all
the
impertinence
of
tongue
,
That
while
it
courts
,
affronts
and
does
you
wrong
.
Mark
well
the
finish'd
plan
without
a
fault
,
The
seas
globose
and
huge
,
th'
o'erarching
vault
,
Earth's
millions
daily
fed
,
a
world
employ'd
In
gath'ring
plenty
yet
to
be
enjoy'd
,
'Till
gratitude
grew
vocal
in
the
praise
Of
God
,
beneficent
in
all
his
ways
,
Grac'd
with
such
wisdom
how
would
beauty
shine
?
Ye
want
but
that
to
seem
indeed
divine
.
Anticipated
rents
and
bills
unpaid
,
Force
many
a
shining
youth
into
the
shade
,
Not
to
redeem
his
time
but
his
estate
,
And
play
the
fool
,
but
at
a
cheaper
rate
.
There
hid
in
loath'd
obscurity
,
remov'd
From
pleasures
left
,
but
never
more
belov'd
,
He
just
endures
,
and
with
a
sickly
spleen
Sighs
o'er
the
beauties
of
the
charming
scene
.
Nature
indeed
looks
prettily
in
rhime
,
Streams
tinkle
sweetly
in
poetic
chime
,
The
warblings
of
the
black-bird
,
clear
and
strong
,
Are
musical
enough
in
Thomson's
song
,
And
Cobham's
groves
and
Windsor's
green
retreats
,
When
Pope
describes
them
,
have
a
thousand
sweets
,
He
likes
the
country
,
but
in
truth
must
own
,
Most
likes
it
,
when
he
studies
it
in
town
.
Poor
Jack
—
no
matter
who
—
for
when
I
blame
I
pity
,
and
must
therefore
sink
the
name
,
Liv'd
in
his
saddle
,
lov'd
the
chace
,
the
course
,
And
always
,
e'er
he
mounted
,
kiss'd
his
horse
.
Th'
estate
his
sires
had
own'd
in
antient
years
,
Was
quickly
distanc'd
,
match'd
against
a
peer's
.
Jack
vanish'd
,
was
regretted
and
forgot
,
'Tis
wild
good-nature's
never-failing
lot
.
At
length
,
when
all
had
long
suppos'd
him
dead
,
By
cold
submersion
,
razor
,
rope
or
lead
,
My
lord
,
alighting
at
his
usual
place
,
The
crown
,
took
notice
of
an
ostler's
face
.
Jack
knew
his
friend
,
but
hop'd
in
that
disguise
He
might
escape
the
most
observing
eyes
,
And
whistling
as
if
unconcern'd
and
gay
,
Curried
his
nag
and
look'd
another
way
.
Convinc'd
at
last
upon
a
nearer
view
,
'Twas
he
,
the
same
,
the
very
Jack
he
knew
,
O'erwhelm'd
at
once
with
wonder
,
grief
and
joy
,
He
press'd
him
much
to
quit
his
base
employ
,
His
countenance
,
his
purse
,
his
heart
,
his
hand
,
Infl'ence
and
pow'r
were
all
at
his
command
.
Peers
are
not
always
gen'rous
as
well-bred
,
But
Granby
was
,
meant
truly
what
he
said
.
Jack
bow'd
and
was
oblig'd
—
confess'd
'twas
strange
That
so
retir'd
he
should
not
wish
a
change
,
But
knew
no
medium
between
guzzling
beer
,
And
his
old
stint
,
three
thousand
pounds
a
year
.
Thus
some
retire
to
nourish
hopeless
woe
,
Some
seeking
happiness
not
found
below
,
Some
to
comply
with
humour
,
and
a
mind
To
social
scenes
by
nature
disinclin'd
,
Some
sway'd
by
fashion
,
some
by
deep
disgust
,
Some
self-impoverish'd
,
and
because
they
must
,
But
few
that
court
Retirement
,
are
aware
Of
half
the
toils
they
must
encounter
there
.
Lucrative
offices
are
seldom
lost
For
want
of
pow'rs
proportion'd
to
the
post
:
Give
ev'n
a
dunce
th'
employment
he
desires
,
And
he
soon
finds
the
talents
it
requires
;
A
business
with
an
income
at
its
heels
,
Furnishes
always
oil
for
its
own
wheels
.
But
in
his
arduous
enterprize
to
close
His
active
years
with
indolent
repose
,
He
finds
the
labours
of
that
state
exceed
His
utmost
faculties
,
severe
indeed
.
'Tis
easy
to
resign
a
toilsome
place
,
But
not
to
manage
leisure
with
a
grace
,
Absence
of
occupation
is
not
rest
,
A
mind
quite
vacant
is
a
mind
distress'd
.
The
vet'ran
steed
excused
his
task
at
length
,
In
kind
compassion
of
his
failing
strength
,
And
turn'd
into
the
park
or
mead
to
graze
,
Exempt
from
future
service
all
his
days
,
There
feels
a
pleasure
perfect
in
its
kind
,
Ranges
at
liberty
,
and
snuffs
the
wind
.
But
when
his
lord
would
quit
the
busy
road
,
To
taste
a
joy
like
that
he
has
bestow'd
,
He
proves
,
less
happy
than
his
favour'd
brute
,
A
life
of
ease
a
difficult
pursuit
.
Thought
,
to
the
man
that
never
thinks
,
may
seem
As
natural
,
as
when
asleep
,
to
dream
,
But
reveries
(
for
human
minds
will
act
)
Specious
in
show
,
impossible
in
fact
,
Those
flimsy
webs
that
break
as
soon
as
wrought
,
Attain
not
to
the
dignity
of
thought
.
Nor
yet
the
swarms
that
occupy
the
brain
Where
dreams
of
dress
,
intrigue
,
and
pleasure
reign
,
Nor
such
as
useless
conversation
breeds
,
Or
lust
engenders
,
and
indulgence
feeds
.
Whence
,
and
what
are
we
?
to
what
end
ordain'd
?
What
means
the
drama
by
the
world
sustain'd
?
Business
or
vain
amusement
,
care
or
mirth
,
Divide
the
frail
inhabitants
of
earth
,
Is
duty
a
mere
sport
,
or
an
employ
?
Life
an
intrusted
talent
,
or
a
toy
?
Is
there
as
reason
,
conscience
,
scripture
say
,
Cause
to
provide
for
a
great
future
day
,
When
earth's
assign'd
duration
at
an
end
,
Man
shall
be
summon'd
and
the
dead
attend
?
The
trumpet
—
will
it
sound
?
the
curtain
rise
?
And
show
th'
august
tribunal
of
the
skies
,
Where
no
prevarication
shall
avail
,
Where
eloquence
and
artifice
shall
fail
,
The
pride
of
arrogant
distinctions
fall
,
And
conscience
and
our
conduct
judge
us
all
?
Pardon
me
,
ye
that
give
the
midnight
oil
,
To
learned
cares
or
philosophic
toil
,
Though
I
revere
your
honourable
names
,
Your
useful
labors
and
important
aims
,
And
hold
the
world
indebted
to
your
aid
,
Enrich'd
with
the
discoveries
ye
have
made
,
Yet
let
me
stand
excused
,
if
I
esteem
A
mind
employ'd
on
so
sublime
a
theme
,
Pushing
her
bold
enquiry
to
the
date
And
outline
of
the
present
transient
state
,
And
after
poising
her
advent'rous
wings
,
Settling
at
last
upon
eternal
things
,
Far
more
intelligent
,
and
better
taught
The
strenuous
use
of
profitable
thought
,
Than
ye
when
happiest
,
and
enlighten'd
most
,
And
highest
in
renown
,
can
justly
boast
.
A
mind
unnerv'd
,
or
indispos'd
to
bear
The
weight
of
subjects
worthiest
of
her
care
,
Whatever
hopes
a
change
of
scene
inspires
,
Must
change
her
nature
,
or
in
vain
retires
.
An
idler
is
a
watch
that
wants
both
hands
,
As
useless
if
it
goes
as
when
it
stands
.
Books
therefore
,
not
the
scandal
of
the
shelves
,
In
which
lewd
sensualists
print
out
themselves
,
Nor
those
in
which
the
stage
gives
vice
a
blow
,
With
what
success
,
let
modern
manners
show
,
Nor
his
,
who
for
the
bane
of
thousands
born
,
Built
God
a
church
and
laugh'd
his
word
to
scorn
,
Skilful
alike
to
seem
devout
and
just
,
And
stab
religion
with
a
sly
side-thrust
;
Nor
those
of
learn'd
philologists
,
who
chase
A
panting
syllable
through
time
and
space
,
Start
it
at
home
,
and
hunt
it
in
the
dark
,
To
Gaul
,
to
Greece
,
and
into
Noah's
ark
;
But
such
as
learning
without
false
pretence
,
The
friend
of
truth
,
th'
associate
of
sound
sense
,
And
such
as
in
the
zeal
of
good
design
,
Strong
judgment
lab'ring
in
rhe
scripture
mine
,
All
such
as
manly
and
great
souls
produce
,
Worthy
to
live
,
and
of
eternal
use
;
Behold
in
these
what
leisure
hours
demand
,
Amusement
and
true
knowledge
hand
in
hand
.
Luxury
gives
the
mind
a
childish
cast
,
And
while
she
polishes
,
perverts
the
taste
,
Habits
of
close
attention
,
thinking
heads
,
Become
more
rare
as
dissipation
spreads
,
'Till
authors
hear
at
length
,
one
gen'ral
cry
,
Tickle
and
entertain
us
,
or
we
die
.
The
loud
demand
from
year
to
year
the
same
,
Beggars
invention
and
makes
fancy
lame
,
'Till
farce
itself
most
mournfully
jejune
,
Calls
for
the
kind
assistance
of
a
tune
,
And
novels
(
witness
ev'ry
month's
review
)
Belie
their
name
and
offer
nothing
new
.
The
mind
relaxing
into
needfull
sport
,
Should
turn
to
writers
of
an
abler
sort
,
Whose
wit
well
manag'd
,
and
whose
classic
stile
,
Give
truth
a
lustre
,
and
make
wisdom
smile
.
Friends
(
for
I
cannot
stint
as
some
have
done
Too
rigid
in
my
view
,
that
name
to
one
,
Though
one
,
I
grant
it
in
th'
gen'rous
breast
Will
stand
advanc'd
a
step
above
the
rest
,
Flow'rs
by
that
name
promiscuously
we
call
,
But
one
,
the
rose
,
the
regent
of
them
all
)
Friends
,
not
adopted
with
a
school-boy's
haste
,
But
chosen
with
a
nice
discerning
taste
,
Well-born
,
well-disciplin'd
,
who
plac'd
a-part
From
vulgar
minds
,
have
honour
much
at
heart
,
And
(
tho'
the
world
may
think
th'
ingredients
odd
)
The
love
of
virtue
,
and
the
fear
of
God
!
Such
friends
prevent
what
else
wou'd
soon
succeed
,
A
temper
rustic
as
the
life
we
lead
,
And
keep
the
polish
of
the
manners
clean
,
As
their's
who
bustle
in
the
busiest
scene
;
For
solitude
,
however
some
may
rave
,
Seeming
a
sanctuary
,
proves
a
grave
,
A
sepulchre
in
which
the
living
lie
,
Where
all
good
qualities
grow
sick
and
die
.
I
praise
the
Bruyere
.
Frenchman
,
his
remark
was
shrew'd
—
How
sweet
,
how
passing
sweet
is
solitude
!
But
grant
me
still
a
friend
in
my
retreat
,
Whom
I
may
whisper
,
solitude
is
sweet
.
Yet
neither
these
delights
,
nor
aught
beside
That
appetite
can
ask
,
or
wealth
provide
,
Can
save
us
always
from
a
tedious
day
,
Or
shine
the
dullness
of
still
life
away
;
Divine
communion
carefully
enjoy'd
,
Or
sought
with
energy
,
must
fill
the
void
.
Oh
sacred
art
,
to
which
alone
life
owes
Its
happiest
seasons
,
and
a
peaceful
close
,
Scorn'd
in
a
world
,
indebted
to
that
scorn
For
evils
daily
felt
and
hardly
borne
,
Not
knowing
thee
,
we
reap
with
bleeding
hands
,
Flow'rs
of
rank
odor
upon
thorny
lands
,
And
while
experience
cautions
us
in
vain
,
Grasp
seeming
happiness
,
and
find
it
pain
.
Despondence
,
self-deserted
in
her
grief
,
Lost
by
abandoning
her
own
relief
,
Murmuring
and
ungrateful
discontent
,
That
scorns
afflictions
mercifully
meant
,
Those
humours
tart
as
wines
upon
the
fret
,
Which
idleness
and
weariness
beget
,
These
and
a
thousand
plagues
that
haunt
the
breast
Fond
of
the
phantom
of
an
earthly
rest
,
Divine
communion
chases
as
the
day
Drives
to
their
dens
th'
obedient
beasts
of
prey
.
See
Judah's
promised
king
,
bereft
of
all
,
Driv'n
out
an
exile
from
the
face
of
Saul
,
To
distant
caves
the
lonely
wand'rer
flies
,
To
seek
that
peace
a
tyrant's
frown
denies
.
Hear
the
sweet
accents
of
his
tuneful
voice
,
Hear
him
o'erwhelm'd
with
sorrow
,
yet
rejoice
,
No
womanish
or
wailing
grief
has
part
,
No
,
not
a
moment
,
in
his
royal
heart
,
Tis
manly
music
,
such
as
martyrs
make
,
Suff'ring
with
gladness
for
a
Saviour's
sake
;
His
soul
exults
,
hope
animates
his
lays
,
The
sense
of
mercy
kindles
into
praise
,
And
wilds
familiar
with
the
lion's
roar
,
Ring
with
extatic
sounds
unheard
before
;
'Tis
love
like
his
that
can
alone
defeat
The
foes
of
man
,
or
make
a
desart
sweet
.
Religion
does
not
censure
or
exclude
Unnumber'd
pleasures
harmlessly
pursued
.
To
study
culture
,
and
with
artful
toil
To
meliorate
and
tame
the
stubborn
soil
,
To
give
dissimilar
yet
fruitful
lands
The
grain
or
herb
or
plant
that
each
demands
,
To
cherish
virtue
in
an
humble
state
,
And
share
the
joys
your
bounty
may
create
,
To
mark
the
matchless
workings
of
the
pow'r
That
shuts
within
its
seed
the
future
flow'r
,
Bids
these
in
elegance
of
form
excell
,
In
colour
these
,
and
those
delight
the
smell
,
Sends
nature
forth
,
the
daughter
of
the
skies
,
To
dance
on
earth
,
and
charm
all
human
eyes
;
To
teach
the
canvass
innocent
deceit
,
Or
lay
the
landscape
on
the
snowy
sheet
,
These
,
these
are
arts
pursued
without
a
crime
,
That
leave
no
stain
upon
the
wing
of
time
.
Me
poetry
(
or
rather
notes
that
aim
Feebly
and
vainly
at
poetic
fame
)
Employs
,
shut
out
from
more
important
views
,
Fast
by
the
banks
of
the
slow-winding
Ouse
,
Content
,
if
thus
sequester'd
I
may
raise
A
monitor's
,
though
not
a
poet's
praise
,
And
while
I
teach
an
art
too
little
known
,
To
close
life
wisely
,
may
not
waste
my
own
.