And claim a right to fcamper and run wide,
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.
The world and I fortuitoufly met,

I ow'd a trifle and have paid the debt,
She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,
And having ftruck the balance, now proceed.
Perhaps, however, as fome years have pass'd,
Since the and I'convers'd together laft,
And I have liv'd reclufe in rural fhades,
Which feldom a distinct report pervades,
Great changes and new manners have occurr'd,
And bleft reforms that I have never heard,
And she may now be as difcreet and wise,
As once abfurd in all difcerning eyes.
Sobriety, perhaps, may now be found,
Where once intoxication prefs'd the ground,
The subtle and injurious may be just,

And he grown chafte that was the flave of luft;
Arts once esteem'd may be with fhame difmifs'd,
Charity may relax the miser's fift,

The gamefter may have caft his cards away,
Forgot to curfe and only kneel to pray.

It has indeed been told me (with what weight,
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state)
That fables old that seem'd for ever mute,
Reviv'd, are haft'ning into fresh repute,

And

And gods and goddeffes 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 feafts are instituted now,

Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow,

That all Olympus through the country roves,»
To confecrate our few remaining groves,
And echo learns politely to repeat,

The praise of names for ages obfolete,

That having prov'd the weakness, it should feem,,
Of revelation's ineffectual beam,

To bring the paffions under fober sway,
And give the moral springs their proper play,
They mean to try what may at last be done,
By ftout fubftantial gods of wood and stone,
And whether Roman rites may not produce
The virtues of old Rome for English use.
May such 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 palæstra bold,
Diveft the rougher fex of female airs,
And teach the fofter not to copy theirs ;.

The

The change fhall please, nor fhall it matter aught
Who works the wonder if it be but wrought.
'Tis time, however, if the cafe ftand thus,
For us plain folks, and all who fide with us,
To build our altar, confident and bold,
And fay as ftern Elijah faid of old,

The ftrife now stands upon a fair award,
If Ifrael's Lord be God, then ferve the Lord-
If he be filent, faith is all a whim,

Then Baal is the God, and worship him.
Digreffion is fo much in modern use,
Thought is fo rare, and fancy fo profuse,
Some never feem fo wide of their intent,
As when returning to the theme they meant;
As mendicants, whofe bufinefs is to roam,
Make ev'ry parish but their own, their home;
Though fuch continual zig-zags in a book,
Such drunken feelings have an aukward look,
And I had rather creep to what is true,

Than rove and ftagger with no mark in view;
Yet to confult a little, feem'd no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time.
But now, to gather up what feems difpers'd,
And touch the fubject I defign'd at first,
May prove, though much befide the rules of art,
Beft for the public, and my wifest part.

And

And first, let no man charge me that I mean,
To cloath in fables every focial scene,
And give good company a face severe,

As if they met around a father's bier;

For tell fome men that pleasure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mispent,
Their wisdom bursts into this fage reply,
Then mirth is fin, and we fhould always cry.
To find the medium afks fome fhare of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter fcene beyond that vale appears,
Whofe glory with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning fhades,
And while it fhows the land the foul defires,
The language of the land fhe feeks, inspires.
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a facred cure
Of all that was abfurd, 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 found, or tinkle without ufe:
Where'er it winds, the falutary stream,
Sprightly and fresh, enriches ev'ry theme,
While all the happy man poffefs'd before

The gift of nature or the claffic store,

Is

Is made fubfervient to the grand defign
For which heav'n form'd the faculty divine..
So fhould an idiot, 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 wife and well-inftructed hand,

Once take the fhell beneath his just command,

In gentle founds it feems as it complain'd.
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd;

'Till tun'd at length, to fome immortal fong,

It founds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise along,

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