She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,
And fhows him glories yet to be reveal'd.
Not flothful he, though feeming unemploy'd,
And cenfur'd oft as ufelefs. Stilleft ftreams
Oft water faireft meadows, and the bird
That flutters leaft, is longeft on the wing.
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd,
Or what atchievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he fhall 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 Cæfar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,
That as she sweeps him with her whistling filks
Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she fee
Deems him a cypher in the works of God,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps the owes
Her funshine and her rain, her blooming fpring
And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes,
When, Isaac 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, and idler in the best,
If, author of no mifchief and fome 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 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 foothing forrow 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 woe,
Then let the fupercilious great confess
He serves his country; recompenses 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 whose virtues are more felt than feen,
Muft 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 fenfual world
Draws grofs 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 impreffion of good fenfe,
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 fhe.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart
Not foon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling, and that vice,
Though well perfum'd and elegantly drefs'd,
Like an unburied carcafe trick'd with flow'rs,
Is but a garnish'd 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
Renown'd in ancient fong; not vex'd with care
Or ftain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv❜d
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at last,
My share of duties decently fulfill'd,
May fome disease, not tardy to perform
Its deftin'd office, yet with gentle stroke,
Difmifs me weary to a fafe retreat
Beneath the turf that I have often trod.
It fhall not grieve me, then, that once when call'd
To drefs a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse,
I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,
With that light tafk; but foon, to please her
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit;
Rov'd far, and gather'd much: fome harfh, 'tis
true,
Pick'd 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 defpis'd.
But all is in his hand whose 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.
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