Exhibit every lineament of these.

Come then, and added to thy many crowns,
Receive yet one, as radiant as the reft,
Due to thy laft and moft effectual work,
Thy word fulfilled, the conquest of a world!

He is the happy man, whofe life e'en now
Shows fomewhat of that happier life to come;
Who, doomed to an obfcure but tranquil fiate,
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; befpeak him one
Content indeed to fojourn while he muft
Below the skies, but having there his home.
The world o'erlooks him in her busy search
Of objects, more illuftrious in her view;
And, occupied as earneftly as fhe,

Though more fublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She fcorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He fecks not her's, for he has proved them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like fummer birds
Purfuing gilded flies; and fuch he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,

Whose power is fuch, that whom she lifts from earth

She makes familiar with a heaven unfeen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
Not flothful he, though seeming unemployed,
And cenfured oft as ufelefs. Stilleft ftreams
Oft water faireft meadows, and the bird,
That flutters leaft, is longeft on the wing.
Afk him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he shall answer-None.
His warfare is within. There unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never withering wreaths, compared with which
The laurels that a Cæfar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the felf-approving haughty world,
That as the fweeps him with her whiftling filks
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if the fee,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noifelefs hours,
Of which the little dreams. Perhaps the owes
Her funshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harveft, to the prayer he makes,
When, Ifaac like, the folitary faint

Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,

And think on her, who thinks not for herself.
Forgive him then, thou buftler in concerns

Of little worth, an idler in the beft,

If, author of no mischief and some good,
He feek his proper happiness by means,
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.
Nor, though he tread the fecret path of life,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incumbrance on the state,
Receiving benefits, and rendering none.

His fphere though humble, if that humble sphere
Shine with his fair example, and though small
His influence, if that influence all be spent
In foothing forrow and in quenching ftrife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works,
From which at leaft a grateful few derive
Some tafte of comfort in a world of wo,
Then let the fupercilious great confefs
He ferves his country, recompenfes well
The ftate, beneath the fhadow of whofe vine
He fits fecure, and in the fcale of life
Holds no ignoble, though a flighted, place.
The man, whofe virtues are more felt than seen,
Muft drop indeed the hope of public praise;
But he may boaft what few that win it can,
That if his country stand not by his skill,
At leaft his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite refinement offers him in vain

Her golden tube, through which a fenfual world
Draws grofs impurity, and likes it well,

The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp and clear impreffion of good sense,
And be not coftly more than of true worth,
He puts it on, and for decorum fake
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.

She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the teft of confcience, and a heart
Not foon deceived; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Though well perfumed and elegantly dreffed,
Like an unburied carcafe tricked with flowers,
Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

So life glides fmoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renowned in ancient fong; not vexed with care
Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at laft,
My share of duties decently fulfilled,
May fome disease, not tardy to perform
Its destined office, yet with gentle ftroke,

Difinifs me weary to a safe retreat,

Beneath the turf, that I have often trod.

It fhall not grieve me then, that once, when called
To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verfe,

I played awhile, obedient to the fair,,

With that light task; but foon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;
Roved far, and gathered much: fome harsh, 'tis true,
Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digefted; grateful fome
To palates, that can taste immortal truth;
Infipid elfe, and fure to be despised.

But all is in his hand, whofe praise I seek.
In vain the poet fings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
"Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,

To charm his ear, whofe eye is on the heart;
Whose frown can disappoint the proudeft ftrain,
Whose approbation-profper even mine.