'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd The heart of merit in the meaner class. Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage But his own simple pleasures; now and then Sheepish he doffs his hat, and, mumbling, swears To do he knows not what! The task perform'd, That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears He hates the field, in which no fife or drum To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home, The great proficiency he made abroad; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart; To be a pest where he was useful once; Are his sole aim, and all his glory, now! Man in society is like a flow'r Blown in its native bed: 'tis there alone Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; In all their private functions, once combin'd, For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe Hence, too, the field of glory, as the world With all its majesty of thund'ring pomp, Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught For folly, gallantry for ev'ry vice. But, slighted as it is, and by the great Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, Had found me, or the hope of being free. The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, The rustic throng beneath his fav'rite beech. I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age As twice sev'n years, his beauties had then first |