Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd,
And censur'd oft as useless. Stillest streams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters least is longest on the wing.
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he shall answer-None.
His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which
The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,

That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks

Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring.
And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes,
When, Isaac like, the solitary saint

Walks forth to meditate at even tide,

And think on her, who thinks not for herself.

Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns

Of little worth, an idler in the best,

If, author of no mischief and some good,
He seek his proper happiness by means
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.
Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,
Account him an incumbrance on the state,

Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none.

His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small

His influence, if that influence all be spent

In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,
In aiding helpless indigence, in works
From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of wo,
Then let the supercilious great confess
He serves his country, recompenses well

The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine
He sits secure, and in the scale of life

Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.
The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
Must drop indeed the hope of public praise;

But he may boast what few that win it can-
That, if his country stand not by his skill,

At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite refinement offers him in vain.

Her golden tube, through which a sensual world
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence.

Not that he peevishly rejects a mode

Because that world adopts it. If it bear

The stamp and clear impression of good sense,
And be not costly more than of true worth,

He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,

Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart
Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Though well perfum'd and elegantly dress'd,
Like an unburied carcase trick'd with flow'rs,

Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far

For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd

Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and so at last,

My share of duties decently fulfill'd,

May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke,
Dismiss me, weary, to a safe retreat

Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

It shall not grieve me, then, at once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse,

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light task; but soon, to please her more,
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit;
Rov'd far, and gather'd much: some harsh,'tis true,
Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some
To palates that can taste immortal truth;
Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd.
But all is in his hand whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet sings, 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,