Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at even tide, And think on her, who thinks not for herself. If, author of no mischief and some good, Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none. His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. But he may boast what few that win it can- At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Her golden tube, through which a sensual world The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. My share of duties decently fulfill'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me, weary, to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me, then, at once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task; but soon, to please her more, |