The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
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 she.

She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the teft of confcience, and a heart
Not foon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make fterling; 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 smoothly 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 fhare 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 safe retreat

Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

It fhall not grieve me, then, at once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verfe,

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light tafk; but foon, to please her more,
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall th' 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 briers 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 whofe 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, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whofe approbation-profper even mine.

AN

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago-
Alas, how time escapes !-'tis even so-
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!
As fome grave gentleman in Terence fays,
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days)
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,
But diftance only cannot change the heart:
And, were I call'd to prove th' affertion true,

One proof should serve-a reference to you.