RETIREMENT.

RETIREMENT . — studiis florens ignobilis oti . VIRG. GEOR . LIB. 4. HACKNEY'D in business , wearied at that oar Which thousands once fast chain'd to , quit no more , But which when life at ebb runs weak and low , All wish , or seem to wish they could forego , The statesman , lawyer , merchant , man of trade , Pants for the refuge of some rural shade , Where all his long anxieties forgot Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot , Or recollected only to gild o'er And add a smile to what was sweet before , He may possess the joys he thinks he sees , Lay his old age upon the lap of ease , Improve the remnant of his wasted span , And having liv'd a trifler , die a man . Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast , Though long rebell'd against , not yet suppress'd , And calls a creature formed for God alone , For heaven's high purposes and not his own , Calls him away from selfish ends and aims , From what debilitates and what inflames , From cities humming with a restless crowd , Sordid as active , ignorant as loud , Whose highest praise is that they live in vain , The dupes of pleasure , or the slaves of gain , Where works of man are cluster'd close around , And works of God are hardly to be found , To regions where in spite of sin and woe , Traces of Eden are still seen below , Where mountain , river , forest , field and grove , Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love . 'Tis well if look'd for at so late a day , In the last scene of such a senseless play , True wisdom will attend his feeble call , And grace his action e'er the curtain fall . Souls that have long despised their heav'nly birth , Their wishes all impregnated with earth , For threescore years employed with ceaseless care , In catching smoke and feeding upon air , Conversant only with the ways of men , Rarely redeem the short remaining ten . Invet'rate habits choak th' unfruitful heart , Their fibres penetrate its tend'rest part , And draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed Their noxious growth , starve ev'ry better seed . Happy if full of days — but happier far If e'er we yet discern life's evening star , Sick of the service of a world that feeds Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds , We can escape from custom's ideot sway , To serve the sov'reign we were born t' obey . Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd ( Infinite skill ) in all that he has made ! To trace in nature's most minute design , The signature and stamp of pow'r divine , Contrivance intricate express'd with ease Where unassisted sight no beauty sees , The shapely limb and lubricated joint , Within the small dimensions of a point , Muscle and nerve miraculously spun , His mighty work who speaks and it is done , Th' invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd , To whom an atom is an ample field . To wonder at a thousand insect forms , These hatch'd , and those resuscitated worms , New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share , Once prone on earth , now buoyant upon air , Whose shape would make them , had they bulk and size , More hideous foes than fancy can devise , With helmed heads and dragon scales adorn'd , The mighty myriads , now securely scorn'd , Would mock the majesty of man's high birth , Despise his bulwarks and unpeople earth . Then with a glance of fancy to survey , Far as the faculty can stretch away , Ten thousand rivers poured at his command From urns that never fail through ev'ry land , These like a deluge with impetuous force , Those winding modestly a silent course , The cloud-surmounting alps , the fruitful vales , Seas on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails , The sun , a world whence other worlds drink light , The crescent moon , the diadem of night , Stars countless , each in his appointed place , Fast-anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — At such a sight to catch the poet's flame , And with a rapture like his own exclaim , These are thy glorious works , thou source of good , How dimly seen , how faintly understood ! — Thine , and upheld by thy paternal care , This universal frame , thus wond'rous fair ; Thy pow'r divine and bounty beyond thought , Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrought . Absorbed in that immensity I see , I shrink abased , and yet aspire to thee ; Instruct me , guide me to that heav'nly day , Thy words , more clearly than thy works display , That while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine , I may resemble thee and call thee mine . Oh blest proficiency ! surpassing all That men erroneously their glory call , The recompence that arts or arms can yield , The bar , the senate or the tented field . Compar'd with this sublimest life below , Ye kings and rulers what have courts to show ? Thus studied , used and consecrated thus , Whatever is , seems form'd indeed for us , Not as the plaything of a froward child , Fretful unless diverted and beguiled , Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires Of pride , ambition or impure desires , But as a scale by which the soul ascends From mighty means to more important ends , Securely , though by steps but rarely trod , Mounts from inferior beings up to God , And sees by no fallacious light or dim , Earth made for man , and man himself for him . Not that I mean t' approve , or would inforce A superstitious and monastic course : Truth is not local , God alike pervades And fills the world of traffic and the shades , And may be fear'd amid the busiest scenes , Or scorn'd where business never intervenes . But 'tis not easy with a mind like ours , Conscious of weakness in its noblest pow'rs , And in a world where ( other ills apart ) The roving eye misleads the careless heart , To limit thought , by nature prone to stray Wherever freakish fancy points the way , To bid the pleadings of self-love be still , Resign our own and seek our maker's will , To spread the page of scripture , and compare Our conduct with the laws engraven there , To measure all that passes in the breast , Faithfully , fairly , by that sacred test , To dive into the secret deeps within , To spare no passion and no fav'rite sin , And search the themes important above all , Ourselves and our recov'ry from our fall . But leisure , silence , and a mind releas'd From anxious thoughts how wealth may be encreas'd , How to secure in some propitious hour , The point of int'rest or the post of power , A soul serene , and equally retired , From objects too much dreaded or desired , Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute , At least are friendly to the great pursuit . Op'ning the map of God's extensive plan , We find a little isle , this life of man , Eternity's unknown expanse appears Circling around and limiting his years ; The busy race examine and explore Each creek and cavern of the dang'rous shore , With care collect what in their eyes excells , Some , shining pebbles , and some , weeds and shells , Thus laden dream that they are rich and great , And happiest he that groans beneath his weight ; The waves o'ertake them in their serious play , And ev'ry hour sweep multitudes away , They shriek and sink , survivors start and weep , Pursue their sport , and follow to the deep ; A few forsake the throng , with lifted eyes Ask wealth of heav'n , and gain a real prize , Truth , wisdom , grace , and peace like that above , Seal'd with his signet whom they serve and love ; Scorn'd by the rest , with patient hope they wait A kind release from their imperfect state , And unregretted are soon snatch'd away From scenes of sorrow into glorious day . Nor these alone prefer a life recluse , Who seek retirement for its proper use , The love of change that lives in ev'ry breast , Genius , and temper , and desire of rest , Discordant motives in one center meet , And each inclines it's vot'ry to retreat . Some minds by nature are averse to noise . And hate the tumult half the world enjoys , The lure of av'rice , or the pompous prize That courts display before ambitious eyes , The fruits that hang on pleasure's flow'ry stem , Whate'er enchants them are no snares to them . To them the deep recess of dusky groves , Or forest where the deer securely roves , The fall of waters and the song of birds , And hills that echo to the distant herds , Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast , and her chief fav'rites share . With eager step and carelessly array'd , For such a cause the poet seeks the shade , From all he sees he catches new delight , Pleas'd fancy claps her pinions at the sight , The rising or the setting orb of day , The clouds that flit , or slowly float away , Nature in all the various shapes she wears , Frowning in storms , or breathing gentle airs , The snowy robe her wintry state assumes , Her summer heats , her fruits , and her perfumes , All , all alike transport the glowing bard , Success in rhime his glory and reward . Oh nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose His bright perfections at whose word they rose , Next to that pow'r who form'd thee and sustains , Be thou the great inspirer of my strains . Still as I touch the lyre , do thou expand Thy genuine charms , and guide an artless hand , That I may catch a fire but rarely known , Give useful light though I should miss renown , And poring on thy page , whose ev'ry line Bears proof of an intelligence divine , May feel an heart enrich'd by what it pays , That builds its glory on its Maker's praise . Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use , Glitt'ring in vain , or only to seduce , Who studies nature with a wanton eye , Admires the work , but slips the lesson by , His hours of leisure and recess employs , In drawing pictures of forbidden joys , Retires to blazon his own worthless name , Or shoot the careless with a surer aim . The lover too shuns business and alarms , Tender idolator of absent charms . Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayr's , That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 'Tis consecration of his heart , soul , time , And every thought that wanders is a crime . In sighs he worships his supremely fair , And weeps a sad libation in despair , Adores a creature , and devout in vain , Wins in return an answer of disdain . As woodbine weds the plants within her reach , Rough elm , or smooth-grain'd ash , or glossy beech , In spiral rings ascends the trunk , and lays Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays , But does a mischief while she lends a grace , Streight'ning its growth by such a strict embrace , So love that clings around the noblest minds , Forbids th' advancement of the soul he binds , The suitor's air indeed he soon improves , And forms it to the taste of her he loves , Teaches his eyes a language , and no less Refines his speech and fashions his address ; But farewell promises of happier fruits , Manly designs , and learning's grave pursuits , Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break , His only-bliss is sorrow for her sake , Who will may pant for glory and excell , Her smile his aim , all higher aims farewell ! Thyrsis , Alexis , or whatever name May least offend against so pure a flame , Though sage advice of friends the most sincere , Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear , And lovers of all creatures , tame or wild , Can least brook management , however mild , Yet let a poet ( poetry disarms The fiercest animals with magic charms ) Risque an intrusion on thy pensive mood , And wooe and win thee to thy proper good . Pastoral images and still retreats , Umbrageous walks and solitary seats , Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams , Soft airs , nocturnal vigils , and day-dreams , Are all enchantments in a case like thine , Conspire against thy peace with one design , Sooth thee to make thee but a surer prey , And feed the fire that wastes thy pow'rs away . Up — God has formed thee with a wiser view , Not to be led in chains , but to subdue , Calls thee to cope with enemies , and first Points out a conflict with thyself , the worst . Woman indeed , a gift he would bestow When he design'd a paradise below , The richest earthly boon his hands afford , Deserves to be belov'd , but not ador'd . Post away swiftly to more active scenes , Collect the scatter'd truths that study gleans , Mix with the world , but with its wiser part , No longer give an image all thine heart , Its empire is not her's , nor is it thine , 'Tis God's just claim , prerogative divine . Virtuous and faithful HEBERDEN ! whose skill Attempts no task it cannot well fulfill , Gives melancholy up to nature's care , And sends the patient into purer air . Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove , Stand close conceal'd , and see a statue move : Lips busy , and eyes fixt , foot falling slow , Arms hanging idly down , hands clasp'd below , Interpret to the marking eye , distress , Such as its symptoms can alone express . That tongue is silent now , that silent tongue Could argue once , could jest or joint the song , Could give advice , could censure or commend , Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend . Renounced alike its office and its sport , Its brisker and its graver strains fall short , Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway , And like a summer-brook are past away . This is a sight for pity to peruse 'Till she resemble faintly what she views , 'Till sympathy contract a kindred pain , Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain . This of all maladies that man infest , Claims most compassion and receives the least , Job felt it when he groan'd beneath the rod , And the barbed arrows of a frowning God , And such emollients as his friends could spare , Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare . Blest , ( rather curst ) with hearts that never feel , Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel , With mouths made only to grin wide and eat , And minds that deem derided pain , a treat , With limbs of British oak and nerves of wire , And wit that puppet-prompters might inspire , Their sov'reign nostrum is a clumsy joke , On pangs inforc'd with God's severest stroke . But with a soul that ever felt the sting Of sorrow , sorrow is a sacred thing , Not to molest , or irritate , or raise A laugh at its expence , is slender praise ; He that has not usurp'd the name of man . Does all , and deems too little , all he can , T' assuage the throbbings of the sester'd part , And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart ; 'Tis not as heads that never ach suppose , Forg'ry of fancy and a dream of woes , Man is an harp whose chords elude the sight , Each yielding harmony , disposed aright , The screws revers'd ( a task which if he please God in a moment executes with ease ) Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose , Lost , 'till he tune them , all their pow'r and use . Then neither heathy wilds , nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care , Nor soft declivities with tufted hills , Nor view of waters turning busy mills , Parks in which art preceptress nature weds , Nor gardens interspers'd with flow'ry beds , Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves , And waft it to the mourner as he roves , Can call up life into his faded eye , That passes all he sees unheeded by : No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels , No cure for such , 'till God who makes them , heals . And thou sad suff'rer under nameless ill , That yields not to the touch of human skill , Improve the kind occasion , understand A father's frown , and kiss his chast'ning hand : To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon , The purple evening and resplendent moon , The stars that sprinkled o'er the vault of night Seem drops descending in a show'r of light , Shine not , or undesired and hated shine , Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : Yet seek him , in his favour life is found , All bliss beside , a shadow or a sound : Then heav'n eclipsed so long , and this dull earth Shall seem to start into a second birth , Nature assuming a more lovely face , Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace , Shall be despised and overlook'd no more , Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before , Impart to things inanimate a voice , And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice , The sound shall run along the winding vales , And thou enjoy an Eden e'er it fails . Ye groves ( the statesman at his desk exclaims Sick of a thousand disappointed aims ) My patrimonial treasure and my pride , Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide , Receive me languishing for that repose The servant of the public never knows . Ye saw me once ( ah those regretted days When boyish innocence was all my praise ) Hour after hour delightfully allot To studies then familiar , since forgot , And cultivate a taste for antient song , Catching its ardour as I mused along ; Nor seldom , as propitious heav'n might send , What once I valued and could boast , a friend , Were witnesses how cordially I press'd His undissembling virtue to my breast ; Receive me now , not uncorrupt as then , Nor guiltless of corrupting other men , But vers'd in arts that while they seem to stay A falling empire , hasten its decay . To the fair haven of my native home , The wreck of what I was , fatigued I come , For once I can approve the patriot's voice , And make the course he recommends , my choice , We meet at last in one sincere desire , His wish and mine both prompt me to retire . 'Tis done — he steps into the welcome chaise , Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays , That whirl away from bus'ness and debate , The disincumber'd Atlas of the state . Ask not the boy , who when the breeze of morn First shakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thorn , Unfolds his flock , then under bank or bush Sits linking cherry stones or platting rush , How fair is freedom ? — he was always free — To carve his rustic name upon a tree , To snare the mole , or with ill-fashion'd hook To draw th' incautious minnow from the brook , Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view , His flock the chief concern he ever knew : She shines but little in his heedless eyes , The good we never miss , we rarely prize . But ask the noble drudge in state-affairs , Escap'd from office and its constant cares , What charms he sees in freedom's smile express'd , In freedom lost so long , now repossess'd , The tongue whose strains were cogent as commands , Revered at home , and felt in foreign lands , Shall own itself a stamm'rer in that cause , Or plead its silence as its best applause . He knows indeed that whether dress'd or rude , Wild without art , or artfully subdued , Nature in ev'ry form inspires delight , But never mark'd her with so just a sight . Her hedge row shrubs , a variegated store , With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er , Green baulks and furrow'd lands , the stream that spreads Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads , Downs that almost escape th' enquiring eye , That melt and fade into the distant skie , Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd , Seem all created since he travell'd last . Master of all th' enjoyments he design'd , No rough annoyance rankling in his mind , What early philosophic hours he keeps , How regular his meals , how sound he sleeps ! Not sounder he that on the mainmast head , While morning kindles with a windy red , Begins a long look-out for distant land , Nor quits till evening-watch his giddy stand , Then swift descending with a seaman's haste , Slips to his hammock , and forgets the blast . He chuses company , but not the squire's , Whose wit is rudeness , whose good breeding tires ; Nor yet the parson's , who would gladly come , Obsequious when abroad , though proud at home , Nor can he much affect the neighb'ring peer , Whose toe of emulation treads too near , But wisely seeks a more convenient friend , With whom , dismissing forms , he may unbend , A man whom marks of condescending grace Teach , while they flatter him , his proper place , Who comes when call'd , and at a word withdraws , Speaks with reserve , and listens with applause , Some plain mechanic , who without pretence To birth or wit , nor gives nor takes offence , On whom he rests well pleas'd his weary pow'rs , And talks and laughs away his vacant hours . The tide of life , swift always in its course , May run in cities with a brisker force , But no where with a current so serene , Or half so clear as in the rural scene . Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss , What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss ; Some pleasures live a month , and some a year , But short the date of all we gather here , Nor happiness is felt , except the true , That does not charm the more for being new . This observation , as it chanced , not made , Or if the thought occurr'd , not duely weigh'd , He sighs — for after all , by slow degrees , The spot he loved has lost the pow'r to please ; To cross his ambling poney day by day , Seems at the best , but dreaming life away , The prospect , such as might enchant despair , He views it not , or sees no beauty there , With aching heart and discontented looks , Returns at noon , to billiards or to books , But feels while grasping at his faded joys , A secret thirst of his renounced employs , He chides the tardiness of every post , Pants to be told of battles won or lost , Blames his own indolence , observes , though late , 'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state , Flies to the levee , and receiv'd with grace , Kneels , kisses hands , and shines again in place . Suburban villas , highway-side retreats , That dread th' encroachment of our growing streets , Tight boxes , neatly sash'd , and in a blaze With all a July sun's collected rays , Delight the citizen , who gasping there Breathes clouds of dust and calls it country air . Oh sweet retirement , who would baulk the thought , That could afford retirement , or could not ? 'Tis such an easy walk , so smooth and strait , The second milestone fronts the garden gate , A step if fair , and if a show'r approach , You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach . There prison'd in a parlour snug and small , Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall , The man of bus'ness and his friends compress'd , Forget their labours , and yet find no rest ; But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen From ev'ry window , and the fields are green , Ducks paddle in the pond before the door , And what could a remoter scene show more ? A sense of elegance we rarely find The portion of a mean or vulgar mind , And ignorance of better things , makes man Who cannot much , rejoice in what he can ; And he that deems his leisure well bestow'd In contemplations of a turnpike road , Is occupied as well , employs his hours As wisely , and as much improves his pow'rs , As he that slumbers in pavilion's graced With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste . Yet hence alas ! Insolvencies , and hence Th' unpitied victim of ill-judg'd expence , From all his wearisome engagements freed , Shakes hands with bus'ness , and retires indeed . Your prudent grand mammas ye modern belles , Content with Bristol , Bath , and Tunbridge-wells , When health requir'd it would consent to roam , Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home . But now alike , gay widow , virgin , wife , Ingenious to diversify dull life , In coaches , chaises , caravans and hoys , Fly to the coast for daily , nightly joys , And all impatient of dry land , agree With one consent to rush into the sea . — Ocean exhibits , fathomless and broad , Much of the pow'r and majesty of God . He swathes about the swelling of the deep , That shines and rests , as infants smile and sleep , Vast as it is , it answers as it flows The breathings of the lightest air that blows , Curling and whit'ning over all the waste , The rising waves obey th' increasing blast , Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars , Thunder and flash upon the stedfast shores , 'Till he that rides the whirlwind , checks the rein , Then , all the world of waters sleeps again . — Nereids or Dryads , as the fashion leads , Now in the floods , now panting in the meads , Vot'ries of pleasure still , where'er she dwells , Near barren rocks , in palaces or cells , Oh grant a poet leave to recommend , ( A poet fond of nature and your friend ) Her slighted works to your admiring view , Her works must needs excel , who fashion'd you . Would ye , when rambling in your morning ride , With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side , Condemn the prattler for his idle pains , To waste unheard the music of his strains , And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue , That while it courts , affronts and does you wrong . Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault , The seas globose and huge , th' o'erarching vault , Earth's millions daily fed , a world employ'd In gath'ring plenty yet to be enjoy'd , 'Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise Of God , beneficent in all his ways , Grac'd with such wisdom how would beauty shine ? Ye want but that to seem indeed divine . Anticipated rents and bills unpaid , Force many a shining youth into the shade , Not to redeem his time but his estate , And play the fool , but at a cheaper rate . There hid in loath'd obscurity , remov'd From pleasures left , but never more belov'd , He just endures , and with a sickly spleen Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene . Nature indeed looks prettily in rhime , Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime , The warblings of the black-bird , clear and strong , Are musical enough in Thomson's song , And Cobham's groves and Windsor's green retreats , When Pope describes them , have a thousand sweets , He likes the country , but in truth must own , Most likes it , when he studies it in town . Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame I pity , and must therefore sink the name , Liv'd in his saddle , lov'd the chace , the course , And always , e'er he mounted , kiss'd his horse . Th' estate his sires had own'd in antient years , Was quickly distanc'd , match'd against a peer's . Jack vanish'd , was regretted and forgot , 'Tis wild good-nature's never-failing lot . At length , when all had long suppos'd him dead , By cold submersion , razor , rope or lead , My lord , alighting at his usual place , The crown , took notice of an ostler's face . Jack knew his friend , but hop'd in that disguise He might escape the most observing eyes , And whistling as if unconcern'd and gay , Curried his nag and look'd another way . Convinc'd at last upon a nearer view , 'Twas he , the same , the very Jack he knew , O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder , grief and joy , He press'd him much to quit his base employ , His countenance , his purse , his heart , his hand , Infl'ence and pow'r were all at his command . Peers are not always gen'rous as well-bred , But Granby was , meant truly what he said . Jack bow'd and was oblig'd — confess'd 'twas strange That so retir'd he should not wish a change , But knew no medium between guzzling beer , And his old stint , three thousand pounds a year . Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe , Some seeking happiness not found below , Some to comply with humour , and a mind To social scenes by nature disinclin'd , Some sway'd by fashion , some by deep disgust , Some self-impoverish'd , and because they must , But few that court Retirement , are aware Of half the toils they must encounter there . Lucrative offices are seldom lost For want of pow'rs proportion'd to the post : Give ev'n a dunce th' employment he desires , And he soon finds the talents it requires ; A business with an income at its heels , Furnishes always oil for its own wheels . But in his arduous enterprize to close His active years with indolent repose , He finds the labours of that state exceed His utmost faculties , severe indeed . 'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place , But not to manage leisure with a grace , Absence of occupation is not rest , A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd . The vet'ran steed excused his task at length , In kind compassion of his failing strength , And turn'd into the park or mead to graze , Exempt from future service all his days , There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind , Ranges at liberty , and snuffs the wind . But when his lord would quit the busy road , To taste a joy like that he has bestow'd , He proves , less happy than his favour'd brute , A life of ease a difficult pursuit . Thought , to the man that never thinks , may seem As natural , as when asleep , to dream , But reveries ( for human minds will act ) Specious in show , impossible in fact , Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought , Attain not to the dignity of thought . Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain Where dreams of dress , intrigue , and pleasure reign , Nor such as useless conversation breeds , Or lust engenders , and indulgence feeds . Whence , and what are we ? to what end ordain'd ? What means the drama by the world sustain'd ? Business or vain amusement , care or mirth , Divide the frail inhabitants of earth , Is duty a mere sport , or an employ ? Life an intrusted talent , or a toy ? Is there as reason , conscience , scripture say , Cause to provide for a great future day , When earth's assign'd duration at an end , Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend ? The trumpet — will it sound ? the curtain rise ? And show th' august tribunal of the skies , Where no prevarication shall avail , Where eloquence and artifice shall fail , The pride of arrogant distinctions fall , And conscience and our conduct judge us all ? Pardon me , ye that give the midnight oil , To learned cares or philosophic toil , Though I revere your honourable names , Your useful labors and important aims , And hold the world indebted to your aid , Enrich'd with the discoveries ye have made , Yet let me stand excused , if I esteem A mind employ'd on so sublime a theme , Pushing her bold enquiry to the date And outline of the present transient state , And after poising her advent'rous wings , Settling at last upon eternal things , Far more intelligent , and better taught The strenuous use of profitable thought , Than ye when happiest , and enlighten'd most , And highest in renown , can justly boast . A mind unnerv'd , or indispos'd to bear The weight of subjects worthiest of her care , Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires , Must change her nature , or in vain retires . An idler is a watch that wants both hands , As useless if it goes as when it stands . Books therefore , not the scandal of the shelves , In which lewd sensualists print out themselves , Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow , With what success , let modern manners show , Nor his , who for the bane of thousands born , Built God a church and laugh'd his word to scorn , Skilful alike to seem devout and just , And stab religion with a sly side-thrust ; Nor those of learn'd philologists , who chase A panting syllable through time and space , Start it at home , and hunt it in the dark , To Gaul , to Greece , and into Noah's ark ; But such as learning without false pretence , The friend of truth , th' associate of sound sense , And such as in the zeal of good design , Strong judgment lab'ring in the scripture mine , All such as manly and great souls produce , Worthy to live , and of eternal use ; Behold in these what leisure hours demand , Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand . Luxury gives the mind a childish cast , And while she polishes , perverts the taste , Habits of close attention , thinking heads , Become more rare as dissipation spreads , 'Till authors hear at length , one gen'ral cry , Tickle and entertain us , or we die . The loud demand from year to year the same , Beggars invention and makes fancy lame , 'Till farce itself most mournfully jejune , Calls for the kind assistance of a tune , And novels ( witness ev'ry month's review ) Belie their name and offer nothing new . The mind relaxing into needfull sport , Should turn to writers of an abler sort , Whose wit well manag'd , and whose classic stile , Give truth a lustre , and make wisdom smile . Friends ( for I cannot stint as some have done Too rigid in my view , that name to one , Though one , I grant it in th' gen'rous breast Will stand advanc'd a step above the rest , Flow'rs by that name promiscuously we call , But one , the rose , the regent of them all ) Friends , not adopted with a school-boy's haste , But chosen with a nice discerning taste , Well-born , well-disciplin'd , who plac'd a-part From vulgar minds , have honour much at heart , And ( tho' the world may think th' ingredients odd ) The love of virtue , and the fear of God ! Such friends prevent what else wou'd soon succeed , A temper rustic as the life we lead , And keep the polish of the manners clean , As their's who bustle in the busiest scene ; For solitude , however some may rave , Seeming a sanctuary , proves a grave , A sepulchre in which the living lie , Where all good qualities grow sick and die . I praise the Bruyere . Frenchman , his remark was shrew'd — How sweet , how passing sweet is solitude ! But grant me still a friend in my retreat , Whom I may whisper , solitude is sweet . Yet neither these delights , nor aught beside That appetite can ask , or wealth provide , Can save us always from a tedious day , Or shine the dullness of still life away ; Divine communion carefully enjoy'd , Or sought with energy , must fill the void . Oh sacred art , to which alone life owes Its happiest seasons , and a peaceful close , Scorn'd in a world , indebted to that scorn For evils daily felt and hardly borne , Not knowing thee , we reap with bleeding hands , Flow'rs of rank odor upon thorny lands , And while experience cautions us in vain , Grasp seeming happiness , and find it pain . Despondence , self-deserted in her grief , Lost by abandoning her own relief , Murmuring and ungrateful discontent , That scorns afflictions mercifully meant , Those humours tart as wines upon the fret , Which idleness and weariness beget , These and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest , Divine communion chases as the day Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey . See Judah's promised king , bereft of all , Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul , To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies , To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies . Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice , Hear him o'erwhelm'd with sorrow , yet rejoice , No womanish or wailing grief has part , No , not a moment , in his royal heart , Tis manly music , such as martyrs make , Suff'ring with gladness for a Saviour's sake ; His soul exults , hope animates his lays , The sense of mercy kindles into praise , And wilds familiar with the lion's roar , Ring with extatic sounds unheard before ; 'Tis love like his that can alone defeat The foes of man , or make a desart sweet . Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued . To study culture , and with artful toil To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil , To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands The grain or herb or plant that each demands , To cherish virtue in an humble state , And share the joys your bounty may create , To mark the matchless workings of the pow'r That shuts within its seed the future flow'r , Bids these in elegance of form excell , In colour these , and those delight the smell , Sends nature forth , the daughter of the skies , To dance on earth , and charm all human eyes ; To teach the canvass innocent deceit , Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet , These , these are arts pursued without a crime , That leave no stain upon the wing of time . Me poetry ( or rather notes that aim Feebly and vainly at poetic fame ) Employs , shut out from more important views , Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse , Content , if thus sequester'd I may raise A monitor's , though not a poet's praise , And while I teach an art too little known , To close life wisely , may not waste my own .