Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning shades,
And, while it shows the land the soul desires,
The language of the land she seeks, inspires.
Thus touch'd, 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 idiot, while at large he strays,
Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays,
With rash and awkward 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 complain'd
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd,

Till, tun'd at length to some immortal song,

It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise

along.

RETIREMENT.

studiis florens ignobilis oti.

VIRG. Georg. 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 form'd for God alone,
For heav'n'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 power and love.
'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day,

In the last scene of such a senseless play,