O'erspent with toil, beneath the shade, A Peasant rested on his spade:

"Good gods!" he cries, "'tis hard to bear This load of life from year to year! Soon as the morning streaks the skies, Industrious Labour bids me rise; With sweat I earn my homely fare, And every day renews my care."

Jove heard the discontented strain, And thus rebuked the murmuring swain: "Speak out your wants, then, honest friend: Unjust complaints, the gods offend.

If you repine at partial Fate,

Instruct me what could mend your state.
Mankind in every station see―

What wish you? tell me what you'd be."
So said, upborne upon a cloud,

The Clown survey'd the anxious crowd.
"Yon face of Care," says Jove, "behold,

His bulky bags are fill'd with gold:
See with what joy he counts it o'er!
That sum to-day hath swell'd his store."
"Were I that man," the Peasant cried,
"What blessing could I ask beside?"

Hold," says the god, "first learn to know True happiness from outward show.

This optic glass of intuition

Here, take it; view his true condition."

He look'd, and saw the miser's breast

A troubled ocean, ne'er at rest;

Want ever stares him in the face,

And fear anticipates disgrace.

With conscious guilt he saw him start,
Extortion gnaws his throbbing heart,
And never, or in thought or dream,
His breast admits one happy gleam.

66

May Jove," he cries, "reject my pray'r, And guard my life from guilt and care! My soul abhors that wretch's fate— Oh keep me in my humble state! But see, amidst a gaudy crowd, Yon minister so gay and proud; 'On him what happiness attends,

Who thus rewards his grateful friends!"

First take the glass," the god replies;

"Man views the world with partial eyes."

"Good gods!" exclaims the startled wight, "Defend me from this hideous sight! Corruption, with corrosive smart, Lies cankering on his guilty heart. I see him with polluted hand Spread the contagion o'er the land. Now Avarice with insatiate jaws, Now Rapine with her harpy claws, His bosom tears; his conscious breast Groans, with a load of crimes opprest. I see him, mad and drunk with power, Stand tottering on Ambition's tower. Sometimes, in speeches vain and proud, His boasts insult the nether crowd; Now, seized with giddiness and fear, He trembles lest his fall is near.

Was ever wretch like this?" he cries, "Such misery in such disguise!

The change, O Jove! I disavow—
Still be my lot the spade and plough."
He next, confirm'd by speculation,
Rejects the lawyer's occupation;
For he the statesman seem'd in part,
And bore similitude of heart.

Nor did the soldier's trade inflame

His hopes, with thirst of spoil and fame:
The miseries of war he mourn'd,

Whole nations into deserts turn'd.

By these have laws and rights been braved;
By these was free-born man enslaved :
When battles and invasion cease,

Why swarm they in the lands of peace?
"Such change," says he, "may I decline-
The scythe, and civil arms, be mine!"
Thus, weighing life in each condition,
The Clown withdrew his rash petition.
When thus the god: "How mortals err!
If you true happiness prefer;
"Tis to no rank of life confined,
But dwells in every honest mind.
Be justice, then, your sole pursuit—
Plant virtue, and content's the fruit."

So Jove, to gratify the Clown,

Where first he found him, set him down.1

(1) The prayer of Agur, the son of Jakeh, recorded in Prov. xxx. 8, touches "Give me neither poverty nor riches; upon most of the evils alluded to here. feed me with food convenient for me:" he also introduces the courtier, and the lawyer, when he says, "Remove from me vanity and lies."

The former, added to "vexation of spirit," comprehends, in Solomon's idea, the sum total of human pleasure, and what can any one do, "after the king?" It is not that a man may not possess wealth, and yet be happy, but the natural

tendency of all excess is evil, and some professions necessarily engender it. Lord Chesterfield, disgusted with life, morosely declared his resolution, "to sleep in the carriage during the remainder of his journey: "the Duke of Athol, gorged with wealth, was thirty years a lunatic. Many have even felt disease, a boon, and a deliverance from worse cares. There is a crook in each one's lot, and here the wisest man is he, who bears the curse under which, we all live, with most equanimity, and, like Samson, to use a metaphor, extracts honey out of the carcase of the lion!

TO MY NATIVE COUNTRY.

HAIL, happy land! whose fertile grounds
The liquid fence of Neptune bounds;
By bounteous Nature set apart,
The seat of Industry and Art.
O Britain! chosen port of trade,
May luxury ne'er thy sons invade!
May never minister (intent

His private treasures to augment)