The young apostate sickens at the view,

And hates it with the malice of a Jew.

How weak the barrier of mere Nature proves, Oppos'd against the pleasures Nature loves! 170 While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone,

She longs to yield, no sooner woo'd than

won.

Try now the merits of this blest exchange
Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range.
Time was, he clos'd as he began the day
With decent duty, not asham'd to pray:
The practice was a bond upon his heart,
A pledge he gave for a consistent part;
Nor could he dare presumptuously displease
A pow'r, confess'd so lately on his knees.
But now farewell all legendary tales,

The shadows fly, philosophy prevails;

Pray'r to the winds, and caution to the waves;

Religion makes the free by nature slaves,

180

REVIEW OF SCHOOLS.

Priests have invented, and the World admir'd
What knavish priests promulgate as inspir'd;
Till Reason, now no longer overaw'd,

Resumes her pow'rs, and spurns the clumsy

fraud;

And common-sense diffusing real day,

The meteor of the Gospel dies away.

Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth
Learn from expert inquirers after truth;
Whose only care, might truth presume to speak,
Is not to find what they profess to seek.
And thus, well-tutor'd only while we share

A mother's lectures and a nurse's care;

And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,"
But sound religion sparingly enough;

190

The author begs leave to explain.-Sensible that, without such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor historians can be tasted, or indeed understood, he does not mean to censure the pains, that are taken to instruct a schoolboy in the religion of the Heathen, but merely that neglect of Christian culture, which leaves him shamefully ignorant of his own.

Our early notices of truth, disgrac'd,

Soon lose their credit, and are all effac'd. 200

Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste For loose expense, and fashionable waste, Should prove your ruin, and his own at last; Train him in public with a mob of boys, Childish in mischief only and in noise, Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten In infidelity and lewdness men.

There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old,

210

That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold;
That pedantry is all that schools impart,
But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart;
There waiter Dick, with Bacchanalian lays,
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise,
His counsellor and bosom-friend shall prove,
And some street-pacing harlot his first love.

Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong,
Detain their adolescent charge too long;

The management of tiroes of eighteen

Is difficult, their punishment obscene.
The stout tall captain, whose superior size
The minor heroes view with envious eyes,
Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix
Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks.
His pride, that scorns t' obey or to submit,
With them is courage; his effront'ry wit.
His wild excursions, window-breaking feats,
Robb'ry of gardens, quarrels in the streets,

220

229.

His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes,
Transport them, and are made their fav'rite themes.
In little bosoms such achievements strike

A kindred spark; they burn to do the like.
Thus, half-accomplish'd ere he yet begin
To show the peeping down upon his chin;
And, as maturity of years comes on,

Made just th' adept that you design'd your son;

T'ensure the perseverance of his course,
And give your monstrous project all it's force,
Send him to college. If he there be tam'd,
Or in one article of vice reclaim'd,

Where no regard of ord'nances is shown

240

Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. Some sneaking virtue lurks in him, no doubt, Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking

bout,

Nor gambling practices, can find it out.
Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too,

Ye nurs❜ries of our boys, we owe to you:

Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, For public schools 'tis public folly feeds.

The slaves of custom and establish'd mode,

250

With packhorse constancy we keep the road,
Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells,
True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
To follow foolish precedents, and wink

With both our eyes, is easier than to think: