In active arts, or vent'rous arms would fhine,
Yet fhuns the paths which virtue bids decline;
Who dignifies his wealth by gen'rous ufe,

To raife th' opprefs'd, or merit to produce-
Shall reafon's voice impartial e'er condemn
The glorious purpose of so wife an aim ?
Where virtue regulates this just defire,
"Twere dang'rous folly to suppress its fire.

Say, whence could fame fupply, (its force unknown)
Her roll illuftrious of fair renown?

What laurels prompt the hero's useful rage ?
What prize the patriot's weighty toils engage?
Each publick paffion bound to endless froft,
Each deed of focial worth for ever loft.

O! may the Muse inspire the love of praise,
Raise the bright paffion, but with judgment raise !
For this fhe oft has tun'd her facred voice,
Call'd forth the patriót, and approv'd his choice;
Bid him the steep ascent to honor take,

Nor till the fummit gain'd, her paths forfake.
Yet not fuccefs alone true fame attends ;
He too fhall reach it who but well intends.

a

See 'midft the vanquish'd virtuous, Falkland lies;

His gen'rous efforts vain, and vain his fighs;

Yet true to merit faithful records tell,

To distant ages how the patriot fell:

a

* He was killed in the civil wars: see his character at large in Clarendon's history.

Bleft

Bleft youth! infur'd the sweetest voice of praise,
Who lives approv'd in Pope's unrival'd lays.

Grave precepts fleeting notions may impart,
But bright example beft inftructs the heart:
Then look on Patrius, let his conduct shew
From active life what various blessings flow.
In him a juft ambition ftands confefs'd;

It warms, but not inflames, his equal breast.
See him in fenates act the patriot's part,
Truth on his lips, the publick at his heart;
There neither fears can awe, nor hopes controul;
The honeft purpose of his steady soul.
No mean attachments e'er feduced his tongue
To gild the caufe his heart suspected wrong ;
But deaf to envy, faction, spleen, his voice
Joins here or there, as reafon guides his choice.
To one great point his faithful labors tend,
And all his toils in Britain's intereft end.
To him each neighbour safe refers his claim,
The right he fettles, and abates the flame.
Nor arts nor worth to Patrius fue in vain,
Nor unreliev'd the injur'd e'er complain.
For him the hand unfeen, are pray'rs prefer'd,
And grateful vows in diftant temples heard ;
Like nature's bleffings to no part confin'd,
His well-pois'd bounty reaches all mankind,
That infolence of wealth, the pomp of state
Which crowds the manfions of the vainly great,
Flies far the limits of his modest gate.

Juft what is elegantly useful's there;

Of aught beyond he scorns th' unworthy care;
Nor wou'd, for all the trim that pride can show,
One fingle act of focial aid forego;

For this he labors to improve his store,

For this he wishes to enlarge his pow'r ;
This is his life's great purpose, end, and aim:
Such true ambition is, and worthy fame.

How different Rapax spent his worthless hour!
With treasure indigent, a slave with pow'r :
Large fums o'erlooking, ftill intent on more,
He wasted, not enjoy'd, his tasteless store.
His growing greatness rais'd his hopes the high'r,
And fan'd his restless pride's increafing fire,
"Twas thus amidst profperity he pin'd;
For what can fill the falfe-ambitious mind?
With all the honors that his prince cou'd give,
With all the wealth his av'rice cou'd receive,
'Midft outward opulence, but inward care,
Reproach and want was all he left his heir.

'Tis true, the patriot well deferves his fame,
And from his country juft applaufe may claim.
But what avails it to the world befide,
That Brutus bravely ftab'd, or Curtius dy'd?
While Tully's merit, unconfin'd to place,
Diffuses bleffings down thro' all our race;
Remotest times his learned labors reach,
And Rome's great moralist e’en now shall teach.

Averse to publick noise, ambition's ftrife, And all the splendid ills of bufy life, Thro' latent paths, unmark'd by vulgar eye, Are there who wish to pass unheeded by ? Whom calm retirement's facred pleasures move, The hour contemplative, or friend they love; Yet not by fpleen, or superstition led, Forbear ambition's giddy heights to tread; Who not inglorious spend their peaceful day, Whilft fcience, lovely ftar! directs their way? Flows there not fomething good from such as these? No useful product from the men of ease? And fhall the Mufe no focial merit boaft ?, Are all her vigils to the publick loft?

1

Tho' noify pride may fcorn her filent toil,
Fair are the fruits which bless her happy foil:
There every plant of useful produce grows,
There science sprang, and thence inftruction flows;
There true philofophy erects her school,

There plans her problem, and there forms her rule;
There every feed of every art began,

And all that eases life, and brightens man.

"Twas hence great Newton, mighty genius! foar'd, And all creation's wond'rous range explor'd.

Far as th' Almighty stretch'd his utmost line,
He pierc'd in thought, and view'd the vaft defign.
Too long had darker ages fought in vain

The fecret fcheme of nature to explain;

Too

Too long had truth escap'd each fage's eye;
Or faintly fhone thro' vain philosophy.

Each shapely offspring of her feeble thought,
A darker veil o'er genuine science brought;
Still ftubborn facts o'erthrew their fruitlefs toil;
For truth and fiction who fhall reconcile ?

But Britain's fons a furer guide pursue ;

Tread fafe the maze, fince Newton gave the clue:
Where-e'er he turn'd true Science rear'd her head,
While far before her puzzled Ign'rance fled :
From each bleft truth these noble ends he draws;
Use to mankind, and to their God applause.
Taught by his rules fecure the merchant rides,
When threat'ning seas roll high their dreadful tides;
And either India speeds her precious stores,
'Midft various dangers fafe to Britain's fhores.
Long as thofe orbs he weigh'd shall shed their rays;
His truth fhall guide us, and shall last his praise.
Yet if fo juft the fame, the ufe fo great,
Systems to poife, and spheres to regulate
To teach the fecret well-adapted force,

That fteers of countless orbs th' unvaried courfe;
Far brighter honors wait the nobler part,
To balance manners, and conduct the heart:
Order without us, what imports it feen,

If all is reftlefs anarchy within ?

VOL: I:

Fir'd