And nobly wishing Party-rage to cease,
To buy both fides, and give thy Country peace.
"All this is madness,” cries a sober sage : But who, my friend, has reason in his rage? "The Ruling Paffion, be it what it will, "The Ruling Paffion conquers reason still." Lefs mad the wildeft whimsey we can frame, Than even that Paffion, if it has no Aim; For though fuch motives Folly you may call, The Folly's greater to have none at all.
Hear then the truth: "'Tis Heaven each Paffion
"And different men directs to different ends.
"Extremes in Nature equal good produce,
"Extremes in Man concur to general use."
Afk we what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids feed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain,
Builds Life on Death, on Change Duration founds,
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like infects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the Poor;
This year a Refervoir, to keep and fpare;
The next, a Fountain, spouting through his Heir,
In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta fham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth :
What though (the use of barbarous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolnefs with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with crefles ftor'd,
With foups unbought and fallads blefs'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulfe, it was no more
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the rich, was prodigal expence,
And who would take the Poor from Providence?
Like fome lone Chartreux ftands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmoaklefs towers furvey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curfe the fav'd candle, and unopening door;
While the gaunt maftiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not fo his Son: he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to fhun, will no great knowledge need
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine!
Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;
'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup, And Zeal for that great House which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked feat,
The Sylvans groan- -no matter-for the Fleet:
Next goes his Wool-to clothe our valiant bands,
Laft, for his Country's love, he fells his Lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her Spoils ?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless Country leaves him to her Laws.
The Senfe to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitioufly purfued,
Not funk by floth, not rais'd by fervitude;
To balance Fortune by a just expence,
Join with Oeconomy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, Bathurft! yet unfpoil'd by wealth!
After ver 218. in the MS.
Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their Lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty mifapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd a while and dy'd;
There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And shewing H―y, teach the golden mean.
After ver. 226. in the MS.
The fecret rare, which affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n loft, yet B-y ne'er could find:
Still mifs'd by Vice, and scarce by Virtue hit,
By G-'s goodnefs, or by S-'s wit,
That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. To Worth or Want well-weigh'd, be Bounty given, And eafe, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race).
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in juft proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergris, a ftink it lies,
But well difpers'd, is incense to the Skies.
P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats? The Wretch that trufts them, and the Rogue that cheats. Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatterer, or Buffoon?
Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit fhare,
Un-elbow'd by a Gamefter, Pimp, or Player?
Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he fhines, oh Fortune, gild the fcene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, English Bounty yet a while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should Lords engross?
Rife, honest Muse! and fing the MAN of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds.
After ver. 250. in the MS.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's fhore,
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whofe Causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary Traveller repofe?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ?
"The MAN of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread !
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state, 265
Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the Courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing Quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wish, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that generous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children
This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a-year.
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