But gently to rebuke his awkward fear,

To prove that what she gives, she gives sincero.
To banish hesitation, and proclaim

His happiness, her dear, her only aim.

"Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream,

That Heav'n's intentions are not what they seem
That only shadows are dispens'd below,
And earth has no reality but wo.

Thus things terrestrial wear a different hue, As youth or age persuades; and neither true.

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So Flora's wreath through colour'd crystal seen,
The rose or lily appears blue or green,
But still th' imputed tints are those alone
The medium represents, and not their own.

To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress,

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To read the news or fiddle as seems best,

Till half the world comes rattling at his door,

To fill the dull vacuity till four;

And, just when ev'ning turns the blue vault gray,

To spend two hours in dressing for the day:
To make the Sun a bauble without use,
Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce:
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,

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Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not;

Through mere necessity to close his eyes

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Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise:

Is such a life, so tediously the same,

So void of all utility or aim,

That poor Jonquil, with almost ev'ry breath,
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd death:
For he, with all his follies, has a mind
Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind,
But now and then perhaps a feeble ray

Of distant wisdom shoots across his way;
By which he reads, that life without a plan,
As useless as the moment it began,

Serves merely as a soil for discontent
To thrive in ; an incumbrance ere half spent.

O weariness beyond what asses feel,

That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel;

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A dull rotation, never at a stay,
Yesterday's face twin image of to-day;
While conversation, an exhausted stock,
Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock.
No need he cries, of gravity stuff ̈d out
With academick dignity devout,

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To read wise lectures, vanity the text;
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next;
For truth self-evident, with pomp impress'd,
Is vanity surpassing all the rest.

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That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, Yet seldom sought where only to be found, While passion turns aside from its due scope Th' inquirer's aim, that remedy is hope.

Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs,

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With ev'ry good and perfect gift proceeds;

Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake,
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake;
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour,
And yet the seed of an immortal flow'r ;
Design'd in honour of his endless love,
To fill with fragance his abode above;
No trifle, howsoever short it seem,
And howsoever shadowy, no dream ;

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Its value what no thought can ascertain,

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Nor all an angel's eloquence explain.

Men deal with life as children with their play,

Who first misuse, then cast their toys away;

Live to no sober purpose, and contend

That their Creator had no serious end.

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When God and man stand opposite in view,

Man's disappointment must of course ensue.

The just Creator condescends to write,
In beams of inextinguishable light,

His names of wisdom, goodness, pow'r, and love,
On all that blooms below, or shines above;

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To catch the wand'ring notice of mankind,
And teach the world, if not perversely Llind,
His gracious attributes, and prove the share
His offspring hold in his paternal care.

If, led from earthly things to things divine,
His creature thwart not his august design,
Then praise is heard instead of reas'ning pride,
And captious cavil and complaint subside.
Nature employ'd in her allotted place,
Is handmaid to the purposes of Grace;

By good vouchsaf'd makes known superiour good,
And bliss not seen by blessings understood:

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That bliss, reveal'd in Scripture, with a glow
Bright as the covenant ensuring bow,

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Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn

Of sensual evil, and thus hope is born.

Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all

That men have deem'd substantial since the fall;
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe

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From emptiness itself a real use;

And while she takes, as at a father's hand,
What health and sober appetite demand,

From fading good derives, with chemick art,

That lasting happiness, a thankful heart.

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Hope with uplifted foot, set free from earth,

Pants for the place of her ethereal birth,

On steady wings sails through the immense abyss,

Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss,

And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here

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With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear.
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast.
Hope! nothing else can nourish and secure
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure.

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Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy,
Whom now despairing agonies destroy,
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he,
What treasures centre, what delights in thee

Had he the gems, the spices, and the land,
That boasts the treasure, all at his command;
The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine,

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Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of thine. Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's arms,

He shines with all a cherub's artless charms.

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Man is the genuine offspring of revolt,

Stubborn and sturdy as a wild ass' colt ;

His passions, like the wat'ry stores that sleep
Beneath the smiling surface of the deep,
Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm,

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To frown, and roar, and shake his feeble form.
From infancy through childhood's giddy maze
Froward at school, and fretful in his plays,
The puny tyrant burns to subjugate
The free republick of the whipgig state.
If one, his equal in athletick frame,

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Or, more provoking still, of nobler name,
Dare step across his arbitrary views,
An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues;

The little Greeks look trembling at the scales,
Till the best tongue, or heaviest hand prevails.

Now see him launch'd into the world at large;

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If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge,
Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl,
Though short, too long, the price he pays for all. 200
If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead,
But proudest of the worst, if that succeed.
Perhaps a grave physician, gath'ring fees,
Punctually paid for length'ning out disease;
No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays
That make superiour skill his second praise.
If arms engage him, he devotes to sport
His date of life, so likely to be short;
A soldier may be any thing, if brave,

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So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave.

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Such stuff the world is made of: and mankind
To passion, int'rest, pleasure, whim, resign'd,

Insist on, as if each were his own pope,
Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope.
But Conscience, in some awful, silent hour,
When captivating lusts have lost their pow'r,
Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream,
Reminds him of religion, hated theme!
Starts from the down, on which she lately slept,
And tells of laws despis'd, at least not kept:
Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise,
A pale procession of past sinful joys,
All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd,

And life abus'd, and not to be suborn'd.

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Mark these, she says; these summon'd from afar, 225 Begin their march to meet thee at the bar;

There find a judge inexorably just,

And perish there, as all presumption must.

Peace be to those, (such peace as earth can give,) Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live; 230 Born, capable, indeed, of heav'nly truth;

But down to latest age, from earliest youth,

Their mind a wilderness through want of care,

The plough of wisdom never ent'ring there.
Peace, (if insensibility may claim

A right to the meek honours of her name,)
To men of pedigree, their noble race,
Emulous always of the nearest place

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To any throne, except the throne of Grace.

Let cottagers and unenlighten'd swains

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Rovere the laws they dream'd that Heav'n ordains;
Resort on Sundays to the house of pray'r,

And ask, and fancy they find blessings there.

Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat
T'enjoy cool nature in a country seat,
T'exchange the centre of a thousand trades,
For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cascades,
May now and then their velvet cushions take,

And seem to pray,

for good example sake ;

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