Are but childish empty toys,
When compar'd to Love's sweet joys.

Love alone can pleasure give,

Only while we love, we live.

To the Honourable and Reverend F. C.

N frolic's hour, ere ferious thought had birth,

IN

There was a time, my dear C-s, when
The Mufe would take me on her airy wing
And waft to views romantic; there present
Some motley vifion, fhade and fun: the cliff
O'erhanging, sparkling brooks, and ruins grey;
Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.
Sometimes Ambition, brushing by, would twitch

My mantle, and with winning look fublime
Allure to follow. What though steep the track,
Her mountain's top would overpay when climb'd
The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the profpects. She could tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique ;

But

But more advis'd to fhun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)

And woo fome thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the fearcher's skill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulfe Sounded irregular marches to be gone

What! pause a moment when Ambition calls?
No, the blood gallops to the diftant goal,

And throbs to reach it. Let the lame fit ftill.
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but fomewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd, and what occafion afk'd,
Of climbing? She already provident
Had cater'd well, if stomach could digeft
Her viands, and a palate not too nice.
Unfit she said, for perilous attempt,

That manly limb requir'd, and finews tough.
She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew,

On poppy beds, where Morpheus ftrew'd the ground:
Obscurity her curtain round me drew,

And fyren Sloth a dull quietus fung.

Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,

Nor ftir of pulfe, nor objects to entice

Abroad the fpirits; but the cloyfter'd heart
Sits fquat at home, like pagod in a niche
Obfcure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in presence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoftan. -Cities, forums, courts
And prating fanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than ftories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the fick

Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Inftead of converse and variety,

The fame trite round, the fame ftale filent scene:
Such are thy comforts, bleffed Solitude!

But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And fimple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapfe of ftreams,
And Saunter, with a book, and warbling Mufe,
In praise of hawthorns. —Life's whole business this!
Is it to bask i' th' fun? if fo, a fnail

Were happy crawling on a fouthern wall.
Why fits Content upon a cottage-fill

At eventide, and bleffeth the coarse meal

In footy corner? why fweet flumbers wait
Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote
Sequefter'd in a dingle's bufhy lap:

'Tis labour makes the peafant's fav'ry fare,
And works out his repofe: for ease must afk
The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.

Oh! liften not to that enchantress Ease
With feeming fmile, her palatable cup
By standing grows infipid; and beware

The bottom, for there's poison in the lees.
What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd!
What daily martyrs to her fluggish caufe!

Lefs ftrict devoir the Rufs and Perfian claim
Defpotic; and as fubjects long inur'd

To fervile burden, grow fupine and tame,
So fares it with our fov'reign and her train.
What though with lure fallacious fhe pretend
From worldly bondage to fet free, what gain
Her votaries? What avails from iron chains
Exempt, if rofy fetters bind as fast?

Beftir, and answer your creation's end.
Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd,
And room to stretch, was deftin'd to fit still?
Sluggards are Nature's rebels, flight her laws,
Nor live up to the terms on which they hold
Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard!
But fuch the tenure of our earthly state!

Riches and fame are Industry's reward;

The nimble runner courses Fortune down,
And then he banquets, for fhe feeds the bold.
Think what you owe your country, what yourself.
If fplendor charm not, yet avoid the fcorn
That treads on lowly stations. Think of fome
Affiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with faucy grandeur looking down :
Think of (Reflection's stab) the pitying friend
With shoulder shrug'd, and forry. Think that Time
Has golden minutes, if difcreetly feiz'd:

And if some sad example, indolent,

To warn and scare be wanting-think of me.

To the Reverend T.

— T—, D. D.

[want

Rench pow'r, and weak allies; and war, and

-FR

No more of that, my friend; you touch a string That hurts my ear. All politics apart,

Except a gen'rous wifh, a glowing prayer
For British welfare, commerce, glory, peace.

Give party to the winds: it is a word,

A phantom