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The man, whofe 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 sensual world
Draws grofs impunity, and likes it well,
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp and clear impreffion of good sense,
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 deceived; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling; and that vice,'
Though well perfumed and elegantly dreffed,
Like an unburied carcafe tricked with flowers,
Is but a garnished nuifance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides fimoothly and by stealth away,

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More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renowned in ancient fong; not vexed with care
Or ftained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at last,
My fhare of duties decently fulfilled,
May fome disease, not tardy to perform
Its deftined office, yet with gentle stroke,
Difmifs me weary to a fafe retreat,

Beneath the turf, that I have often trod.

It fhall not grieve me then, that once, when called To drefs a Sofa with the flowers of verfe,

I played awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light tafk; but foon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;
Roved far, and gathered much: fome harfh, 'tis true,
Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,
But wholesome, well-digefted; grateful fome
To palates, that can tafte immortal truth;
Infipid elfe, and fure to be defpifed.
But all is in his hand, whose 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, whofe eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudeft ftrain, Whofe approbation-profper even mine.

AN

EPISTLE

TO

JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago-
Alas how time escapes! 'tis even fọ—
With frequent intercourfe, 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 says,
('Twas therefore much the fame 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 called to prove the affertion true,
One proof fhould ferve--a reference to you.

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