CONVERSATION
.
Nam
ne{que}
me
tantum
venientis
sibilus
austri
,
Nec
percussa
juvant
fluctû
tam
litora
,
nec
quae
Saxosas
inter
decurrunt
flumina
valles
.
VIRG.
ECL.
5.
THOUGH
nature
weigh
our
talents
,
and
dispense
To
ev'ry
man
his
modicum
of
sense
,
And
Conversation
in
its
better
part
,
May
be
esteemed
a
gift
and
not
an
art
,
Yet
much
depends
,
as
in
the
tiller's
toil
,
On
culture
,
and
the
sowing
of
the
soil
.
Words
learn'd
by
rote
,
a
parrot
may
rehearse
,
But
talking
is
not
always
to
converse
,
Not
more
distinct
from
harmony
divine
The
constant
creaking
of
a
country
sign
.
As
alphabets
in
ivory
employ
Hour
after
hour
the
yet
unletter'd
boy
,
Sorting
and
puzzling
with
a
deal
of
glee
Those
seeds
of
science
called
his
ABC
,
So
language
in
the
mouths
of
the
adult
,
Witness
its
insignificant
result
,
Too
often
proves
an
implement
of
play
,
A
toy
to
sport
with
,
and
pass
time
away
.
Collect
at
evening
what
the
day
brought
forth
,
Compress
the
sum
into
its
solid
worth
,
And
if
it
weigh
th'
importance
of
a
fly
,
The
scales
are
false
or
Algebra
a
lie
.
Sacred
interpreter
of
human
thought
,
How
few
respect
or
use
thee
as
they
ought
!
But
all
shall
give
account
of
ev'ry
wrong
Who
dare
dishonour
or
defile
the
tongue
,
Who
prostitute
it
in
the
cause
of
vice
,
Or
sell
their
glory
at
a
market-price
,
Who
vote
for
hire
,
or
point
it
with
lampoon
,
The
dear-bought
placeman
,
and
the
cheap
buffoon
.
There
is
a
prurience
in
the
speech
of
some
,
Wrath
stays
him
,
or
else
God
would
strike
them
dumb
;
His
wise
forbearance
has
their
end
in
view
,
They
fill
their
measure
and
receive
their
due
.
The
heathen
law-givers
of
antient
days
,
Names
almost
worthy
of
a
Christian
praise
,
Would
drive
them
forth
from
the
resort
of
men
,
And
shut
up
ev'ry
satyr
in
his
den
.
Oh
come
not
ye
near
innocence
and
truth
,
Ye
worms
that
eat
into
the
bud
of
youth
!
Infectious
as
impure
,
your
blighting
pow'r
Taints
in
its
rudiments
the
promised
flow'r
,
Its
odour
perish'd
and
its
charming
hue
,
Thenceforth
'tis
hateful
for
it
smells
of
you
.
Not
ev'n
the
vigorous
and
headlong
rage
Of
adolescence
or
a
firmer
age
,
Affords
a
plea
allowable
or
just
,
For
making
speech
the
pamperer
of
lust
;
But
when
the
breath
of
age
commits
the
fault
,
'Tis
nauseous
as
the
vapor
of
a
vault
.
So
wither'd
stumps
disgrace
the
sylvan
scene
,
No
longer
fruitful
and
no
longer
green
,
The
sapless
wood
divested
of
the
bark
,
Grows
fungous
and
takes
fire
at
ev'ry
spark
.
Oaths
terminate
,
as
Paul
observes
,
all
strife
—
Some
men
have
surely
then
a
peaceful
life
,
Whatever
subject
occupy
discourse
,
The
feats
of
Vestris
or
the
naval
force
,
Asseveration
blust'ring
in
your
face
Makes
contradiction
such
an
hopeless
case
;
In
ev'ry
tale
they
tell
,
or
false
or
true
,
Well
known
,
or
such
as
no
man
ever
knew
,
They
fix
attention
,
heedless
of
your
pain
,
With
oaths
like
rivets
forced
into
the
brain
,
And
ev'n
when
sober
truth
prevails
throughout
,
They
swear
it
,
'till
affirmance
breeds
a
doubt
.
A
Persian
,
humble
servant
of
the
sun
,
Who
though
devout
yet
bigotry
had
none
,
Hearing
a
lawyer
,
grave
in
his
address
,
With
adjurations
ev'ry
word
impress
,
Supposed
the
man
a
bishop
,
or
at
least
,
God's
name
so
much
upon
his
lips
,
a
priest
,
Bowed
at
the
close
with
all
his
graceful
airs
,
And
begg'd
an
int'rest
in
his
frequent
pray'rs
.
Go
quit
the
rank
to
which
ye
stood
preferred
,
Henceforth
associate
in
one
common
herd
,
Religion
,
virtue
,
reason
,
common
sense
Pronounce
your
human
form
a
false
pretence
,
A
mere
disguise
in
which
a
devil
lurks
,
Who
yet
betrays
his
secret
by
his
works
.
Ye
pow'rs
who
rule
the
tongue
,
if
such
there
are
,
And
make
colloquial
happiness
your
care
,
Preserve
me
from
the
thing
I
dread
and
hate
,
A
duel
in
the
form
of
a
debate
:
The
clash
of
arguments
and
jar
of
words
Worse
than
the
mortal
brunt
of
rival
swords
,
Decide
no
question
with
their
tedious
length
,
For
opposition
gives
opinion
strength
,
Divert
the
champions
prodigal
of
breath
,
And
put
the
peaceably-disposed
to
death
.
Oh
thwart
me
not
,
Sir
Soph
.
at
ev'ry
turn
,
Nor
carp
at
ev'ry
flaw
you
may
discern
,
Though
syllogisms
hang
not
on
my
tongue
,
I
am
not
surely
always
in
the
wrong
;
'Tis
hard
if
all
is
false
that
I
advance
,
A
fool
must
now
and
then
be
right
,
by
chance
.
Not
that
all
freedom
of
dissent
I
blame
,
No
—
there
I
grant
the
privilege
I
claim
.
A
disputable
point
is
no
man's
ground
,
Rove
where
you
please
,
'tis
common
all
around
,
Discourse
may
want
an
animated
—
No
—
To
brush
the
surface
and
to
make
it
flow
,
But
still
remember
if
you
mean
to
please
,
To
press
your
point
with
modesty
and
ease
.
The
mark
at
which
my
juster
aim
I
take
,
Is
contradiction
for
its
own
dear
sake
;
Set
your
opinion
at
whatever
pitch
,
Knots
and
impediments
make
something
hitch
,
Adopt
his
own
,
'tis
equally
in
vain
,
Your
thread
of
argument
is
snapt
again
;
The
wrangler
,
rather
than
accord
with
you
,
Will
judge
himself
deceiv'd
,
and
prove
it
too
.
Vociferated
logic
kills
me
quite
,
A
noisy
man
is
always
in
the
right
,
I
twirl
my
thumbs
,
fall
back
into
my
chair
,
Fix
on
the
wainscot
a
distressful
stare
,
And
when
I
hope
his
blunders
are
all
out
,
Reply
discreetly
—
to
be
sure
—
no
doubt
.
DUBIUS
is
such
a
scrupulous
good
man
—
Yes
—
you
may
catch
him
tripping
if
you
can
.
He
would
not
with
a
peremptory
tone
Assert
the
nose
upon
his
face
his
own
;
With
hesitation
admirably
slow
,
He
humbly
hopes
,
presumes
it
may
be
so
.
His
evidence
,
if
he
were
called
by
law
,
To
swear
to
some
enormity
he
saw
,
For
want
of
prominence
and
just
relief
,
Would
hang
an
honest
man
and
save
a
thief
.
Through
constant
dread
of
giving
truth
offence
,
He
ties
up
all
his
hearers
in
suspense
,
Knows
what
he
knows
as
if
he
knew
it
not
,
What
he
remembers
seems
to
have
forgot
,
His
sole
opinion
,
whatsoe'er
befall
,
Cent'ring
at
last
in
having
none
at
all
.
Yet
though
he
teaze
and
baulk
your
list'ning
ear
,
He
makes
one
useful
point
exceeding
clear
;
Howe'er
ingenious
on
his
darling
theme
,
A
sceptic
in
philosophy
may
seem
,
Reduced
to
practice
,
his
beloved
rule
,
Would
only
prove
him
a
consummate
fool
,
Useless
in
him
alike
both
brain
and
speech
,
Fate
having
placed
all
truth
above
his
reach
;
His
ambiguities
his
total
sum
,
He
might
as
well
be
blind
and
deaf
and
dumb
.
Where
men
of
judgment
creep
and
feel
their
way
,
The
Positive
pronounce
without
dismay
,
Their
want
of
light
and
intellect
supplied
By
sparks
absurdity
strikes
out
of
pride
:
Without
the
means
of
knowing
right
from
wrong
,
They
always
are
decisive
,
clear
and
strong
;
Where
others
toil
with
philosophic
force
,
Their
nimble
nonsense
takes
a
shorter
course
,
Flings
at
your
head
conviction
in
the
lump
,
And
gains
remote
conclusions
at
a
jump
:
Their
own
defect
invisible
to
them
,
Seen
in
another
they
at
once
condemn
,
And
though
self-idolized
in
ev'ry
case
,
Hate
their
own
likeness
in
a
brother's
face
.
The
cause
is
plain
and
not
to
be
denied
,
The
proud
are
always
most
provok'd
by
pride
,
Few
competitions
but
engender
spite
,
And
those
the
most
,
where
neither
has
a
right
.
The
point
of
honour
has
been
deemed
of
use
,
To
teach
good
manners
and
to
curb
abuse
;
Admit
it
true
,
the
consequence
is
clear
,
Our
polished
manners
are
a
mask
we
wear
,
And
at
the
bottom
,
barb'rous
still
and
rude
,
We
are
restrained
indeed
,
but
not
subdued
;
The
very
remedy
,
however
sure
,
Springs
from
the
mischief
it
intends
to
cure
,
And
savage
in
its
principle
appears
,
Tried
,
as
it
should
be
,
by
the
fruit
it
bears
.
'Tis
hard
indeed
if
nothing
will
defend
Mankind
from
quarrels
but
their
fatal
end
,
That
now
and
then
an
hero
must
decease
,
That
the
surviving
world
may
live
in
peace
.
Perhaps
at
last
,
close
scrutiny
may
show
The
practice
dastardly
and
mean
and
low
,
That
men
engage
in
it
compelled
by
force
,
And
fear
not
courage
is
its
proper
source
,
The
fear
of
tyrant
custom
,
and
the
fear
Lest
fops
should
censure
us
,
and
fools
should
sneer
;
At
least
to
trample
on
our
Maker's
laws
,
And
hazard
life
,
for
any
or
no
cause
,
To
rush
into
a
fixt
eternal
state
,
Out
of
the
very
flames
of
rage
and
hate
,
Or
send
another
shiv'ring
to
the
bar
With
all
the
guilt
of
such
unnat'ral
war
,
Whatever
use
may
urge
or
honour
plead
,
On
reason's
verdict
is
a
madman's
deed
.
Am
I
to
set
my
life
upon
a
throw
Because
a
bear
is
rude
and
surly
?
No
—
A
moral
,
sensible
and
well-bred
man
Will
not
affront
me
,
and
no
other
can
.
Were
I
empow'rd
to
regulate
the
lists
,
They
should
encounter
with
well-loaded
fists
,
A
Trojan
combat
would
be
something
new
,
Let
DARES
beat
ENTELLUS
black
and
blue
,
Then
each
might
show
to
his
admiring
friends
In
honourable
bumps
his
rich
amends
,
And
carry
in
contusions
of
his
scull
,
A
satisfactory
receipt
in
full
.
A
story
in
which
native
humour
reigns
Is
often
useful
,
always
entertains
,
A
graver
fact
enlisted
on
your
side
,
May
furnish
illustration
,
well
applied
;
But
sedentary
weavers
of
long
tales
,
Give
me
the
fidgets
and
my
patience
fails
.
'Tis
the
most
asinine
employ
on
earth
,
To
hear
them
tell
of
parentage
and
birth
,
And
echo
conversations
dull
and
dry
,
Embellished
with
,
he
said
,
and
so
said
I
.
At
ev'ry
interview
their
route
the
same
,
The
repetition
makes
attention
lame
,
We
bustle
up
with
unsuccessful
speed
,
And
in
the
saddest
part
cry
—
droll
indeed
!
The
path
of
narrative
with
care
pursue
,
Still
making
probability
your
clue
,
On
all
the
vestiges
of
truth
attend
,
And
let
them
guide
you
to
a
decent
end
.
Of
all
ambitions
man
may
entertain
,
The
worst
that
can
invade
a
sickly
brain
,
Is
that
which
angles
hourly
for
surprize
,
And
baits
its
hook
with
prodigies
and
lies
.
Credulous
infancy
or
age
as
weak
Are
fittest
auditors
for
such
to
seek
,
Who
to
please
others
will
themselves
disgrace
,
Yet
please
not
,
but
affront
you
to
your
face
.
A
great
retailer
of
this
curious
ware
,
Having
unloaded
and
made
many
stare
,
Can
this
be
true
?
an
arch
observer
cries
—
Yes
,
rather
moved
,
I
saw
it
with
these
eyes
.
Sir
!
I
believe
it
on
that
ground
alone
,
I
could
not
,
had
I
seen
it
with
my
own
.
A
tale
should
be
judicious
,
clear
,
succinct
,
The
language
plain
,
and
incidents
well-link'd
,
Tell
not
as
new
what
ev'ry
body
knows
,
And
new
or
old
,
still
hasten
to
a
close
,
There
centring
in
a
focus
,
round
and
neat
,
Let
all
your
rays
of
information
meet
:
What
neither
yields
us
profit
or
delight
,
Is
like
a
nurse's
lullaby
at
night
,
Guy
Earl
of
Warwick
and
fair
Eleanore
,
Or
giant-killing
Jack
would
please
me
more
.
The
pipe
with
solemn
interposing
puff
,
Makes
half
a
sentence
at
a
time
enough
;
The
dozing
sages
drop
the
drowsy
strain
,
Then
pause
,
and
puff
—
and
speak
,
and
pause
again
.
Such
often
like
the
tube
they
so
admire
,
Important
trifles
!
have
more
smoke
than
fire
.
Pernicious
weed
!
whose
scent
the
fair
annoys
Unfriendly
to
society's
chief
joys
,
Thy
worst
effect
is
banishing
for
hours
The
sex
whose
presence
civilizes
ours
:
Thou
art
indeed
the
drug
a
gard'ner
wants
,
To
poison
vermin
that
infest
his
plants
,
But
are
we
so
to
wit
and
beauty
blind
,
As
to
despise
the
glory
of
our
kind
,
And
show
the
softest
minds
and
fairest
forms
As
little
mercy
,
as
he
,
grubs
and
worms
?
They
dare
not
wait
the
riotous
abuse
,
Thy
thirst-creating
steams
at
length
produce
,
When
wine
has
giv'n
indecent
language
birth
,
And
forced
the
flood-gates
of
licentious
mirth
;
For
sea-born
Venus
her
attachment
shows
Still
to
that
element
from
which
she
rose
,
And
with
a
quiet
which
no
fumes
disturb
,
Sips
meek
infusions
of
a
milder
herb
.
Th'
emphatic
speaker
dearly
loves
t'
oppose
In
contact
inconvenient
,
nose
to
nose
,
As
if
the
gnomon
on
his
neighbour's
phiz
,
Touched
with
a
magnet
had
attracted
his
.
His
whisper'd
theme
,
dilated
and
at
large
,
Proves
after
all
a
wind-gun's
airy
charge
,
An
extract
of
his
diary
—
no
more
,
A
tasteless
journal
of
the
day
before
.
He
walked
abroad
,
o'ertaken
in
the
rain
Called
on
a
friend
,
drank
tea
,
stept
home
again
,
Resumed
his
purpose
,
had
a
world
of
talk
With
one
he
stumbled
on
,
and
lost
his
walk
.
I
interrupt
him
with
a
sudden
bow
,
Adieu
dear
Sir
!
lest
you
should
lose
it
now
.
I
cannot
talk
with
civet
in
the
room
,
A
fine
puss-gentleman
that's
all
perfume
;
The
sight's
enough
—
no
need
to
smell
a
beau
—
Who
thrusts
his
nose
into
a
raree-show
?
His
odoriferous
attempts
to
please
,
Perhaps
might
prosper
with
a
swarm
of
bees
,
But
we
that
make
no
honey
though
we
sting
,
Poets
,
are
sometimes
apt
to
mawl
the
thing
.
'Tis
wrong
to
bring
into
a
mixt
resort
,
What
makes
some
sick
,
and
others
a-la-mort
,
An
argument
of
cogence
,
we
may
say
,
Why
such
an
one
should
keep
himself
away
.
A
graver
coxcomb
we
may
sometimes
see
,
Quite
as
absurd
though
not
so
light
as
he
:
A
shallow
brain
behind
a
serious
mask
,
An
oracle
within
an
empty
cask
,
The
solemn
fop
;
significant
and
budge
;
A
fool
with
judges
,
amongst
fools
a
judge
.
He
says
but
little
,
and
that
little
said
Owes
all
its
weight
,
like
loaded
dice
,
to
lead
.
His
wit
invites
you
by
his
looks
to
come
,
But
when
you
knock
it
never
is
at
home
:
'Tis
like
a
parcel
sent
you
by
the
stage
,
Some
handsome
present
,
as
your
hopes
presage
,
'Tis
heavy
,
bulky
,
and
bids
fair
to
prove
An
absent
friend's
fidelity
and
love
,
But
when
unpack'd
your
disappointment
groans
To
find
it
stuff'd
with
brickbats
,
earth
and
stones
.
Some
men
employ
their
health
,
an
ugly
trick
,
In
making
known
how
oft
they
have
been
sick
,
And
give
us
in
recitals
of
disease
A
doctor's
trouble
,
but
without
the
fees
:
Relate
how
many
weeks
they
kept
their
bed
,
How
an
emetic
or
cathartic
sped
,
Nothing
is
slightly
touched
,
much
less
forgot
,
Nose
,
ears
,
and
eyes
seem
present
on
the
spot
.
Now
the
distemper
spite
of
draught
or
pill
Victorious
seem'd
,
and
now
the
doctor's
skill
;
And
now
—
alas
for
unforeseen
mishaps
!
They
put
on
a
damp
night-cap
and
relapse
;
They
thought
they
must
have
died
they
were
so
bad
,
Their
peevish
hearers
almost
wish
they
had
.
Some
fretful
tempers
wince
at
ev'ry
touch
,
You
always
do
too
little
or
too
much
:
You
speak
with
life
in
hopes
to
entertain
,
Your
elevated
voice
goes
through
the
brain
;
You
fall
at
once
into
a
lower
key
,
That's
worse
—
the
drone-pipe
of
an
humble
bee
.
The
southern
sash
admits
too
strong
a
light
,
You
rise
and
drop
the
curtain
—
now
its
night
.
He
shakes
with
cold
—
you
stir
the
fire
and
strive
To
make
a
blaze
—
that's
roasting
him
alive
.
Serve
him
with
ven'son
and
he
chuses
fish
,
With
soal
—
that's
just
the
sort
he
would
not
wish
,
He
takes
what
he
at
first
profess'd
to
loath
,
And
in
due
time
feeds
heartily
on
both
;
Yet
still
o'erclouded
with
a
constant
frown
,
He
does
not
swallow
but
he
gulps
it
down
.
Your
hope
to
please
him
,
vain
on
ev'ry
plan
,
Himself
should
work
that
wonder
if
he
can
—
Alas
!
his
efforts
double
his
disttess
,
He
likes
yours
little
and
his
own
still
less
,
Thus
always
teazing
others
,
always
teazed
,
His
only
pleasure
is
—
to
be
displeas'd
.
I
pity
bashful
men
,
who
feel
the
pain
Of
fancied
scorn
and
undeserv'd
disdain
,
And
bear
the
marks
upon
a
blushing
face
Of
needless
shame
and
self-imposed
disgrace
.
Our
sensibilities
are
so
acute
,
The
fear
of
being
silent
makes
us
mute
.
We
sometimes
think
we
could
a
speech
produce
Much
to
the
purpose
,
if
our
tongues
were
loose
,
But
being
tied
,
it
dies
upon
the
lip
,
Faint
as
a
chicken's
note
that
has
the
pip
:
Our
wasted
oil
unprofitably
burns
Like
hidden
lamps
in
old
sepulchral
urns
.
Few
Frenchmen
of
this
evil
have
complained
,
It
seems
as
if
we
Britons
were
ordained
By
way
of
wholesome
curb
upon
our
pride
,
To
fear
each
other
,
fearing
none
beside
.
The
cause
perhaps
enquiry
may
descry
,
Self-searching
with
an
introverted
eye
,
Concealed
within
an
unsuspected
part
,
The
vainest
corner
of
our
own
vain
heart
:
For
ever
aiming
at
the
world's
esteem
,
Our
self-importance
ruins
its
own
scheme
,
In
other
eyes
our
talents
rarely
shown
,
Become
at
length
so
splendid
in
our
own
,
We
dare
not
risque
them
into
public
view
,
Lest
they
miscarry
of
what
seems
their
due
.
True
modesty
is
a
discerning
grace
,
And
only
blushes
in
the
proper
place
,
But
counterfeit
is
blind
,
and
skulks
through
fear
,
Where
'tis
a
shame
to
be
ashamed
t'
appear
;
Humility
the
parent
of
the
first
,
The
last
by
vanity
produced
and
nurst
.
The
circle
formed
we
sit
in
silent
state
,
Like
figures
drawn
upon
a
dial-plate
,
Yes
ma'am
,
and
no
ma'am
,
utter'd
softly
,
show
Ev'ry
five
minutes
how
the
minutes
go
;
Each
individual
suffering
a
constraint
Poetry
may
,
but
colours
cannot
paint
,
As
if
in
close
committee
on
the
sky
,
Reports
it
hot
or
cold
,
or
wet
or
dry
;
And
finds
a
changing
clime
,
an
happy
source
Of
wise
reflection
and
well-timed
discourse
.
We
next
enquire
,
but
softly
and
by
stealth
,
Like
conservators
of
the
public
health
,
Of
epidemic
throats
if
such
there
are
,
And
coughs
and
rheums
and
phtisic
and
catarrh
.
That
theme
exhausted
,
a
wide
chasm
ensues
,
Filled
up
at
last
with
interesting
news
,
Who
danced
with
whom
,
and
who
are
like
to
wed
,
And
who
is
hanged
,
and
who
is
brought
to
bed
,
But
fear
to
call
a
more
important
cause
,
As
if
'twere
treason
against
English
laws
.
The
visit
paid
,
with
extasy
we
come
As
from
a
seven
years
transportation
,
home
,
And
there
resume
an
unembarrass'd
brow
,
Recov'ring
what
we
lost
we
know
not
how
,
The
faculties
that
seem'd
reduc'd
to
nought
,
Expression
and
the
privilege
of
thought
.
The
reeking
roaring
hero
of
the
chase
,
I
give
him
over
as
a
desp'rate
case
.
Physicians
write
in
hopes
to
work
a
cure
,
Never
,
if
honest
ones
,
when
death
is
sure
;
And
though
the
fox
he
follows
may
be
tamed
,
A
mere
fox-follower
never
is
reclaimed
.
Some
farrier
should
prescribe
his
proper
course
,
Whose
only
fit
companion
is
his
horse
,
Or
if
deserving
of
a
better
doom
The
noble
beast
judge
otherwise
,
his
groom
.
Yet
ev'n
the
rogue
that
serves
him
,
though
he
stand
To
take
his
honour's
orders
cap
in
hand
,
Prefers
his
fellow-grooms
with
much
good
sense
,
Their
skill
a
truth
,
his
master's
a
pretence
.
If
neither
horse
nor
groom
affect
the
squire
,
Where
can
at
last
his
jockeyship
retire
?
Oh
to
the
club
,
the
scene
of
savage
joys
,
The
school
of
coarse
good
fellowship
and
noise
;
There
in
the
sweet
society
of
those
Whose
friendship
from
his
boyish
years
he
chose
,
Let
him
improve
his
talent
if
he
can
,
'Till
none
but
beasts
acknowledge
him
a
man
.
Man's
heart
had
been
impenetrably
sealed
,
Like
theirs
that
cleave
the
flood
or
graze
the
field
,
Had
not
his
Maker's
all-bestowing
hand
Giv'n
him
a
soul
and
bade
him
understand
.
The
reas'oning
pow'r
vouchsafed
of
course
inferred
The
pow'r
to
cloath
that
reason
with
his
word
,
For
all
is
perfect
that
God
works
on
earth
,
And
he
that
gives
conception
,
adds
the
birth
.
If
this
be
plain
,
'tis
plainly
understood
What
uses
of
his
boon
the
Giver
would
.
The
mind
dispatched
upon
her
busy
toil
Should
range
where
Providence
has
blest
the
soil
,
Visiting
ev'ry
flow'r
with
labour
meet
,
And
gathering
all
her
treasures
sweet
by
sweet
,
She
should
imbue
the
tongue
with
what
she
sips
,
And
shed
the
balmy
blessing
on
the
lips
,
That
good
diffused
may
more
abundant
grow
,
And
speech
may
praise
the
pow'r
that
bids
it
flow
.
Will
the
sweet
warbler
of
the
live-long
night
That
fills
the
list'ning
lover
with
delight
,
Forget
his
harmony
with
rapture
heard
,
To
learn
the
twitt'ring
of
a
meaner
bird
,
Or
make
the
parrot's
mimickry
his
choice
,
That
odious
libel
on
an
human
voice
?
No
—
nature
unsophisticate
by
man
,
Starts
not
aside
from
her
Creator's
plan
,
The
melody
that
was
at
first
design'd
To
cheer
the
rude
forefathers
of
mankind
,
Is
note
for
note
deliver'd
in
our
ears
,
In
the
last
scene
of
her
six
thousand
years
:
Yet
Fashion
,
leader
of
a
chatt'ring
train
,
Whom
man
for
his
own
hurt
permits
to
reign
,
Who
shifts
and
changes
all
things
but
his
shape
,
And
would
degrade
her
vot'ry
to
an
ape
,
The
fruitful
parent
of
abuse
and
wrong
,
Holds
an
usurp'd
dominion
o'er
his
tongue
:
There
sits
and
prompts
him
with
his
own
disgrace
,
Prescribes
the
theme
,
the
tone
and
the
grimace
,
And
when
accomplished
in
her
wayward
school
,
Calls
gentleman
whom
she
has
made
a
fool
.
'Tis
an
unalterable
fixt
decree
That
none
could
frame
or
ratify
but
she
,
That
heav'n
and
hell
and
righteousness
and
sin
,
Snares
in
his
path
and
foes
that
lurk
within
,
God
and
his
attributes
(
a
field
of
day
Where
'tis
an
angel's
happiness
to
stray
)
Fruits
of
his
love
and
wonders
of
his
might
,
Be
never
named
in
ears
esteemed
polite
.
That
he
who
dares
,
when
she
forbids
,
be
grave
,
Shall
stand
proscribed
,
a
madman
or
a
knave
,
A
close
designer
not
to
be
believed
,
Or
if
excus'd
that
charge
,
at
least
deceived
.
Oh
folly
worthy
of
the
nurse's
lap
,
Give
it
the
breast
or
stop
its
mouth
with
pap
!
Is
it
incredible
,
or
can
it
seem
A
dream
to
any
except
those
that
dream
,
That
man
should
love
his
Maker
,
and
that
fire
Warming
his
heart
should
at
his
lips
transpire
?
Know
then
,
and
modestly
let
fall
your
eyes
,
And
vail
your
daring
crest
that
braves
the
skies
,
That
air
of
insolence
affronts
your
God
,
You
need
his
pardon
,
and
provoke
his
rod
,
Now
,
in
a
posture
that
becomes
you
more
Than
that
heroic
strut
assumed
before
,
Know
,
your
arrears
with
ev'ry
hour
accrue
,
For
mercy
shown
while
wrath
is
justly
due
.
The
time
is
short
,
and
there
are
souls
on
earth
,
Though
future
pain
may
serve
for
present
mirth
,
Acquainted
with
the
woes
that
fear
or
shame
By
fashion
taught
,
forbade
them
once
to
name
,
And
having
felt
the
pangs
you
deem
a
jest
,
Have
prov'd
them
truths
too
big
to
be
express'd
:
Go
seek
on
revelation's
hallow'd
ground
,
Sure
to
succeed
,
the
remedy
they
found
,
Touch'd
by
that
pow'r
that
you
have
dared
to
mock
,
That
makes
seas
stable
and
dissolves
the
rock
,
Your
heart
shall
yield
a
life-renewing
stream
,
That
fools
,
as
you
have
done
,
shall
call
a
dream
.
It
happened
on
a
solemn
even-tide
,
Soon
after
He
that
was
our
surety
died
,
Two
bosom-friends
each
pensively
inclined
,
The
scene
of
all
those
sorrows
left
behind
,
Sought
their
own
village
,
busied
as
they
went
In
musings
worthy
of
the
great
event
:
They
spake
of
him
they
loved
,
of
him
whose
life
Though
blameless
,
had
incurred
perpetual
strife
,
Whose
deeds
had
left
,
in
spite
of
hostile
arts
,
A
deep
memorial
graven
on
their
hearts
;
The
recollection
like
a
vein
of
ore
,
The
farther
traced
enrich'd
them
still
the
more
,
They
thought
him
,
and
they
justly
thought
him
one
Sent
to
do
more
than
he
appear'd
to
have
done
,
T'
exalt
a
people
,
and
to
place
them
high
Above
all
else
,
and
wonder'd
he
should
die
.
E're
yet
they
brought
their
journey
to
an
end
,
A
stranger
joined
them
,
courteous
as
a
friend
,
And
asked
them
with
a
kind
engaging
air
,
What
their
affliction
was
,
and
begged
a
share
.
Informed
,
he
gather'd
up
the
broken
thread
,
And
truth
and
wisdom
gracing
all
he
said
,
Explained
,
illustrated
and
searched
so
well
The
tender
theme
on
which
they
chose
to
dwell
,
That
reaching
home
,
the
night
,
they
said
,
is
near
,
We
must
not
now
be
parted
,
sojourn
here
—
The
new
acquaintance
soon
became
a
guest
,
And
made
so
welcome
at
their
simple
feast
,
He
blessed
the
bread
,
but
vanish'd
at
the
word
,
And
left
them
both
exclaiming
,
'twas
the
Lord
!
Did
not
our
hearts
feel
all
he
deigned
to
say
,
Did
they
not
burn
within
us
by
the
way
?
Now
theirs
was
converse
such
as
it
behoves
Man
to
maintain
,
and
such
as
God
approves
;
Their
views
indeed
were
indistinct
and
dim
,
But
yet
successful
being
aimed
at
him
.
Christ
and
his
character
their
only
scope
,
Their
object
and
their
subject
and
their
hope
,
They
felt
what
it
became
them
much
to
feel
,
And
wanting
him
to
loose
the
sacred
seal
,
Found
him
as
prompt
as
their
desire
was
true
,
To
spread
the
new-born
glories
in
their
view
.
Well
—
what
are
ages
and
the
lapse
of
time
Matched
against
truths
as
lasting
as
sublime
?
Can
length
of
years
on
God
himself
exact
,
Or
make
that
fiction
which
was
once
a
fact
?
No
—
marble
and
recording
brass
decay
,
And
like
the
graver's
mem'ry
pass
away
;
The
works
of
man
inherit
,
as
is
just
,
Their
authors
frailty
and
return
to
dust
;
But
truth
divine
for
ever
stands
secure
,
Its
head
as
guarded
as
its
base
is
sure
,
Fixt
in
the
rolling
flood
of
endless
years
The
pillar
of
th'
eternal
plan
appears
,
The
raving
storm
and
dashing
wave
defies
,
Built
by
that
architect
who
built
the
skies
.
Hearts
may
be
found
that
harbour
at
this
hour
,
That
love
of
Christ
in
all
its
quick'ning
pow'r
,
And
lips
unstained
by
folly
or
by
strife
,
Whose
wisdom
drawn
from
the
deep
well
of
life
,
Tastes
of
its
healthful
origin
,
and
flows
A
Jordan
for
th'
ablution
of
our
woes
.
Oh
days
of
heav'n
and
nights
of
equal
praise
,
Serene
and
peaceful
as
those
heav'nly
days
,
When
souls
drawn
upward
in
communion
sweet
,
Enjoy
the
stillness
of
some
close
retreat
,
Discourse
as
if
released
and
safe
at
home
,
Of
dangers
past
and
wonders
yet
to
come
,
And
spread
the
sacred
treasures
of
the
breast
Upon
the
lap
of
covenanted
rest
.
What
always
dreaming
over
heav'nly
things
,
Like
angel-heads
in
stone
with
pigeon-wings
?
Canting
and
whining
out
all
day
the
word
And
half
the
night
?
fanatic
and
absurd
!
Mine
be
the
friend
less
frequent
in
his
pray'rs
,
Who
makes
no
bustle
with
his
soul's
affairs
,
Whose
wit
can
brighten
up
a
wintry
day
,
And
chase
the
splenetic
dull
hours
away
,
Content
on
earth
in
earthly
things
to
shine
,
Who
waits
for
heav'n
e'er
he
becomes
divine
,
Leaves
saints
t'
enjoy
those
altitudes
they
teach
,
And
plucks
the
fruit
plac'd
more
within
his
reach
.
Well
spoken
,
Advocate
of
sin
and
shame
,
Known
by
thy
bleating
,
Ignorance
thy
name
.
Is
sparkling
wit
the
world's
exclusive
right
,
The
fixt
fee-simple
of
the
vain
and
light
?
Can
hopes
of
heav'n
,
bright
prospects
of
an
hour
That
comes
to
waft
us
out
of
sorrow's
pow'r
,
Obscure
or
quench
a
faculty
that
finds
Its
happiest
soil
in
the
serenest
minds
?
Religion
curbs
indeed
its
wanton
play
,
And
brings
the
trifler
under
rig'rous
sway
,
But
gives
it
usefulness
unknown
before
,
And
purifying
makes
it
shine
the
more
.
A
Christian's
wit
is
inoffensive
light
,
A
beam
that
aids
but
never
grieves
the
sight
,
Vig'rous
in
age
as
in
the
flush
of
youth
,
'Tis
always
active
on
the
side
of
truth
,
Temp'rance
and
peace
insure
its
healthful
state
,
And
make
it
brightest
at
its
latest
date
.
Oh
I
have
seen
(
nor
hope
perhaps
in
vain
E'er
life
go
down
to
see
such
sights
again
)
A
vet'ran
warrior
in
the
Christian
field
,
Who
never
saw
the
sword
he
could
not
wield
;
Grave
without
dullness
,
learned
without
pride
,
Exact
yet
not
precise
,
though
meek
,
keen-eyed
,
A
man
that
would
have
foiled
at
their
own
play
,
A
dozen
would-be's
of
the
modern
day
:
Who
when
occasion
justified
its
use
,
Had
wit
as
bright
as
ready
,
to
produce
,
Could
fetch
from
records
of
an
earlier
age
,
Or
from
philosophy's
enlighten'd
page
His
rich
materials
,
and
regale
your
ear
With
strains
it
was
a
privilege
to
hear
;
Yet
above
all
his
luxury
supreme
,
And
his
chief
glory
was
the
gospel
theme
;
There
he
was
copious
as
old
Greece
or
Rome
,
His
happy
eloquence
seem'd
there
at
home
,
Ambitious
,
not
to
shine
or
to
excel
,
But
to
treat
justly
what
he
lov'd
so
well
.
It
moves
me
more
perhaps
than
folly
ought
,
When
some
green
heads
as
void
of
wit
as
thought
,
Suppose
themselves
monopolists
of
sense
,
And
wiser
men's
ability
pretence
.
Though
time
will
wear
us
,
and
we
must
grow
old
,
Such
men
are
not
forgot
as
soon
as
cold
,
Their
fragrant
mem'ry
will
out
last
their
tomb
,
Embalmed
for
ever
in
its
own
perfume
:
And
to
say
truth
,
though
in
its
early
prime
,
And
when
unstained
with
any
grosser
crime
,
Youth
has
a
sprightliness
and
fire
to
boast
,
That
in
the
valley
of
decline
are
lost
,
And
virtue
with
peculiar
charms
appears
Crown'd
with
the
garland
of
life's
blooming
years
;
Yet
age
by
long
experience
well
informed
,
Well
read
,
well
temper'd
,
with
religion
warmed
,
That
fire
abated
which
impells
rash
youth
,
Proud
of
his
speed
to
overshoot
the
truth
,
As
time
improves
the
grape's
authentic
juice
,
Mellows
and
makes
the
speech
more
fit
for
use
,
And
claims
a
rev'rence
in
its
short'ning
day
,
That
'tis
an
honour
and
a
joy
to
pay
.
The
fruits
of
age
,
less
fair
,
are
yet
more
sound
,
Than
those
a
brighter
season
pours
around
,
And
like
the
stores
autumnal
suns
mature
,
Through
wintry
rigours
unimpaired
endure
.
What
is
fanatic
frenzy
,
scorned
so
much
,
And
dreaded
more
than
a
contagious
touch
?
I
grant
it
dang'rous
,
and
approve
your
fear
,
That
fire
is
catching
if
you
draw
too
near
,
But
sage
observers
oft
mistake
the
flame
,
And
give
true
piety
that
odious
name
.
To
tremble
(
as
the
creature
of
an
hour
Ought
at
the
view
of
an
almighty
pow'r
)
Before
his
presence
,
at
whose
awful
throne
All
tremble
in
all
worlds
,
except
our
own
,
To
supplicate
his
mercy
,
love
his
ways
,
And
prize
them
above
pleasure
,
wealth
or
praise
,
Though
common
sense
allowed
a
casting
voice
,
And
free
from
bias
,
must
approve
the
choice
,
Convicts
a
man
fanatic
in
th'
extreme
,
And
wild
as
madness
in
the
world's
esteem
.
But
that
disease
when
soberly
defin'd
Is
the
false
fire
of
an
o'erheated
mind
,
It
views
the
truth
with
a
distorted
eye
,
And
either
warps
or
lays
it
useless
by
,
'Tis
narrow
,
selfish
,
arrogant
,
and
draws
Its
sordid
nourishment
from
man's
applause
,
And
while
at
heart
sin
unrelinqush'd
lies
,
Presumes
itself
chief
fav'rite
of
the
skies
.
'Tis
such
a
light
as
putrefaction
breeds
In
fly-blown
flesh
,
whereon
the
maggot
feeds
,
Shines
in
the
dark
,
but
usher'd
into
day
,
The
stench
remains
,
the
lustre
dies
away
.
True
bliss
,
if
man
may
reach
it
,
is
composed
Of
hearts
in
union
mutually
disclosed
:
And
,
farewell
else
all
hope
of
pure
delight
,
Those
hearts
should
be
reclaim'd
,
renew'd
,
upright
.
Bad
men
,
profaning
friendship's
hallow'd
name
,
Form
,
in
its
stead
,
a
covenant
of
shame
,
A
dark
confed'racy
against
the
laws
Of
virtue
,
and
religion's
glorious
cause
.
They
build
each
other
up
with
dreadful
skill
,
As
bastions
set
point-blank
against
God's
will
,
Enlarge
and
fortify
the
dread
redoubt
,
Deeply
resolv'd
to
shut
a
Saviour
out
,
Call
legions
up
from
hell
to
back
the
deed
,
And
curst
with
conquest
,
finally
succeed
:
But
souls
that
carry
on
a
blest
exchange
Of
joys
they
meet
with
in
their
heav'nly
range
,
And
with
a
fearless
confidence
make
known
The
sorrows
sympathy
esteems
its
own
,
Daily
derive
encreasing
light
and
force
From
such
communion
in
their
pleasant
course
,
Feel
less
the
journey's
roughness
and
its
length
,
Meet
their
opposers
with
united
strength
,
And
one
in
heart
,
in
int'rest
and
design
,
Gird
up
each
other
to
the
race
divine
.
But
Conversation
,
chuse
what
theme
we
may
,
And
chiefly
when
religion
leads
the
way
,
Should
flow
like
waters
after
summer
show'rs
,
Not
as
if
rais'd
by
mere
mechanic
pow'rs
.
The
Christian
in
whose
soul
,
though
now
distress'd
,
Lives
the
dear
thought
of
joys
he
once
possess'd
,
When
all
his
glowing
language
issued
forth
With
God's
deep
stamp
upon
its
current
worth
,
Will
speak
without
disguise
,
and
must
impart
Sad
as
it
is
,
his
undissembling
heart
,
Abhors
constraint
,
and
dares
not
feign
a
zeal
,
Or
seem
to
boast
a
fire
he
does
not
feel
.
The
song
of
Sion
is
a
tasteless
thing
,
Unless
when
rising
on
a
joyful
wing
The
soul
can
mix
with
the
celestial
bands
,
And
give
the
strain
the
compass
it
demands
.
Strange
tidings
these
to
tell
a
world
who
treat
All
but
their
own
experience
as
deceit
!
Will
they
believe
,
though
credulous
enough
To
swallow
much
upon
much
weaker
proof
,
That
there
are
blest
inhabitants
of
earth
,
Partakers
of
a
new
aethereal
birth
,
Their
hopes
,
desires
and
purposes
estranged
From
things
terrestrial
,
and
divinely
changed
,
Their
very
language
of
a
kind
that
speaks
The
soul's
sure
int'rest
in
the
good
she
seeks
,
Who
deal
with
scripture
,
its
importance
felt
,
As
Tully
with
philosophy
once
dealt
,
And
in
the
silent
watches
of
the
night
,
And
through
the
scenes
of
toil-renewing
light
,
The
social
walk
,
or
solitary
ride
,
Keep
still
the
dear
companion
at
their
side
?
No
—
shame
upon
a
self-disgracing
age
,
God's
work
may
serve
an
ape
upon
a
stage
,
With
such
a
jest
as
fill'd
with
hellish
glee
Certain
invisibles
as
shrewd
as
he
,
But
veneration
or
respect
finds
none
,
Save
from
the
subjects
of
that
work
alone
.
The
world
grown
old
,
her
deep
discernment
shows
,
Claps
spectacles
on
her
sagacious
nose
,
Peruses
closely
the
true
Christian's
face
,
And
finds
it
a
mere
mask
of
sly
grimace
,
Usurps
God's
office
,
lays
his
bosom
bare
,
And
finds
hypocrisy
close-lurking
there
,
And
serving
God
herself
through
mere
constraint
,
Concludes
his
unfeign'd
love
of
him
,
a
feint
.
And
yet
God
knows
,
look
human
nature
through
,
(
And
in
due
time
the
world
shall
know
it
too
)
That
since
the
flow'rs
of
Eden
selt
the
blast
,
That
after
man's
defection
laid
all
waste
,
Sincerity
towards
th'
heart-searching
God
,
Has
made
the
new-born
creature
her
abode
,
Nor
shall
be
found
in
unregen'rate
souls
,
Till
the
last
fire
burn
all
between
the
poles
.
Sincerity
!
Why
'tis
his
only
pride
,
Weak
and
imperfect
in
all
grace
beside
,
He
knows
that
God
demands
his
heart
entire
,
And
gives
him
all
his
just
demands
require
.
Without
it
,
his
pretensions
were
as
vain
,
As
having
it
,
he
deems
the
world's
disdain
;
That
great
defect
would
cost
him
not
alone
Man's
favourable
judgment
,
but
his
own
,
His
birthright
shaken
and
no
longer
clear
,
Than
while
his
conduct
proves
his
heart
sincere
.
Retort
the
charge
,
and
let
the
world
be
told
She
boasts
a
confidence
she
does
not
hold
,
That
conscious
of
her
crimes
,
she
feels
instead
,
A
cold
misgiving
,
and
a
killing
dread
:
That
while
in
health
,
the
ground
of
her
support
Is
madly
to
forget
that
life
is
short
,
That
sick
,
she
trembles
,
knowing
she
must
die
,
Her
hope
presumption
,
and
her
faith
a
lie
.
That
while
she
doats
and
dreams
that
she
believes
,
She
mocks
her
maker
and
herself
deceives
,
Her
utmost
reach
,
historical
assent
,
The
doctrines
warpt
to
what
they
never
meant
.
That
truth
itself
is
in
her
head
as
dull
And
useless
as
a
candle
in
a
scull
,
And
all
her
love
of
God
a
groundless
claim
,
A
trick
upon
the
canvass
,
painted
flame
.
Tell
her
again
,
the
sneer
upon
her
face
,
And
all
her
censures
of
the
work
of
grace
,
Are
insincere
,
meant
only
to
conceal
A
dread
she
would
not
,
yet
is
forc'd
to
feel
,
That
in
her
heart
the
Christian
she
reveres
,
And
while
she
seems
to
scorn
him
,
only
fears
.
A
poet
does
not
work
by
square
or
line
,
As
smiths
and
joiners
perfect
a
design
,
At
least
we
moderns
,
our
attention
less
,
Beyond
th'
example
of
our
sires
,
digress
,
And
claim
a
right
to
scamper
and
run
wide
,
Wherever
chance
,
caprice
,
or
fancy
guide
.
The
world
and
I
fortuitously
met
,
I
ow'd
a
trifle
and
have
paid
the
debt
,
She
did
me
wrong
,
I
recompens'd
the
deed
,
And
having
struck
the
balance
,
now
procecd
.
Perhaps
,
however
,
as
some
years
have
pass'd
Since
she
and
I
conversed
together
last
,
And
I
have
liv'd
recluse
in
rural
shades
,
Which
seldom
a
distinct
report
pervades
,
Great
changes
and
new
manners
have
occurr'd
,
And
blest
reforms
that
I
have
never
heard
,
And
she
may
now
be
as
discreet
and
wise
,
As
once
absurd
in
all
discerning
eyes
.
Sobriety
perhaps
may
now
be
found
,
Where
once
intoxication
press'd
the
ground
,
The
subtle
and
injurious
may
be
just
,
And
he
grown
chaste
that
was
the
slave
of
lust
;
Arts
once
esteem'd
may
be
with
shame
dismiss'd
,
Charity
may
relax
the
miser's
fist
,
The
gamester
may
have
cast
his
cards
away
,
Forgot
to
curse
and
only
kneel
to
pray
.
It
has
indeed
been
told
me
(
with
what
weight
,
How
credibly
,
'tis
hard
for
me
to
state
)
That
fable's
old
that
seem'd
for
ever
mute
,
Reviv'd
,
are
hast'ning
into
fresh
repute
,
And
gods
and
goddesses
discarded
long
,
Like
useless
lumber
or
a
stroller's
fong
,
Are
bringing
into
vogue
their
heathen
train
,
And
Jupiter
bids
fair
to
rule
again
.
That
certain
feasts
are
instituted
now
,
Where
Venus
hears
the
lover's
tender
vow
,
That
all
Olympus
through
the
country
roves
,
To
consecrate
our
few
remaining
groves
,
And
echo
learns
politely
to
repeat
,
The
praise
of
names
for
ages
obsolete
,
That
having
proved
the
weakness
,
it
should
seem
,
Of
revelation's
ineffectual
beam
,
To
bring
the
passions
under
sober
sway
,
And
give
the
moral
springs
their
proper
play
,
They
mean
to
try
what
may
at
last
be
done
By
stout
substantial
gods
of
wood
and
stone
,
And
whether
Roman
rites
may
not
produce
The
virtues
of
old
Rome
for
English
use
.
May
much
success
attend
the
pious
plan
,
May
Mercury
once
more
embellish
man
,
Grace
him
again
with
long
forgotten
arts
,
Reclaim
his
taste
and
brighten
up
his
parts
,
Make
him
athletic
as
in
days
of
old
,
Learn'd
at
the
bar
,
in
the
paloestra
bold
,
Divest
the
rougher
sex
of
female
airs
,
And
teach
the
softer
not
to
copy
theirs
.
The
change
shall
please
,
nor
shall
it
matter
aught
Who
works
the
wonder
if
it
be
but
wrought
.
'Tis
time
,
hoewever
,
if
the
case
stand
thus
,
For
us
plain
folks
and
all
who
side
with
us
,
To
build
our
altar
,
confident
and
bold
,
And
say
as
stern
Elijah
said
of
old
,
The
strife
now
stands
upon
a
fair
award
,
If
Is'rael's
Lord
be
God
,
then
serve
the
Lord
—
If
he
be
silent
,
faith
is
all
a
whim
,
Then
Baal
is
the
God
and
worship
him
.
Digression
is
so
much
in
modern
use
,
Thought
is
so
rare
,
and
fancy
so
profuse
,
Some
never
seem
so
wide
of
their
intent
,
As
when
returning
to
the
theme
they
meant
.
As
mendicants
whose
business
is
to
roam
,
Make
ev'ry
parish
but
their
own
,
their
home
Though
such
continual
zigzags
in
a
book
,
Such
drunken
reelings
have
an
aukward
look
,
And
I
had
rather
creep
to
what
is
true
,
Than
rove
and
stagger
with
no
mark
in
view
,
Yet
to
consult
a
little
,
seem'd
no
crime
,
The
freakish
humour
of
the
present
time
.
But
now
,
to
gather
up
what
seems
dispers'd
,
And
touch
the
subject
I
design'd
at
first
,
May
prove
,
though
much
beside
the
rules
of
art
,
Best
for
the
public
,
and
my
wisest
part
.
And
first
let
no
man
charge
me
that
I
mean
To
cloath
in
sables
every
social
scene
,
And
give
good
company
a
face
severe
As
if
they
met
around
a
father's
bier
;
For
tell
some
men
that
pleasure
all
their
bent
,
And
laughter
all
their
work
,
is
life
mispent
,
Their
wisdom
bursts
into
this
sage
reply
,
Then
mirth
is
sin
,
and
we
should
always
cry
.
To
find
the
medium
asks
some
share
of
wit
,
And
therefore
'tis
a
mark
fools
never
hit
.
But
though
life's
valley
be
a
vale
of
tears
,
A
brighter
scene
beyond
that
vale
appears
,
Whose
glory
with
a
light
that
never
fades
,
Shoots
between
scattered
rocks
and
opening
shades
,
And
while
it
shows
the
land
the
soul
desires
,
The
language
of
the
land
she
seeks
,
inspires
.
Thus
touched
,
the
tongue
receives
a
sacred
cure
Of
all
that
was
absurd
,
profane
,
impure
,
Held
within
modest
bounds
the
tide
of
speech
Pursues
the
course
that
truth
and
nature
teach
,
No
longer
labours
merely
to
produce
The
pomp
of
sound
,
or
tinkle
without
use
,
Where'er
it
winds
,
the
salutary
stream
Sprightly
and
fresh
,
enriches
ev'ry
theme
,
While
all
the
happy
man
possess'd
before
,
The
gift
of
nature
or
the
classic
store
,
Is
made
subservient
to
the
grand
design
For
which
heav'n
form'd
the
faculty
divine
.
So
should
an
ideot
while
at
large
he
strays
,
Find
the
sweet
lyre
on
which
an
artist
plays
,
With
rash
and
aukward
force
the
chords
he
shakes
,
And
grins
with
wonder
at
the
jar
he
makes
;
But
let
the
wise
and
well-instructed
hand
,
Once
take
the
shell
beneath
his
just
command
,
In
gentle
sounds
it
seems
as
it
complained
Of
the
rude
injuries
it
late
sustained
,
'Till
tun'd
at
length
to
some
immortal
song
,
It
sounds
Jehovah's
name
,
and
pours
his
praise
along
.