Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;
When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enflav'd by terror of the band,
Th' audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.
Perhaps, though by profeffion ghostly pure,
He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove
Lefs dainty than becomes his grave outfide
In lucrative concerns. Examine well
His milk-white hand; thepalm is hardly clean-
But here and there an ugly smutch appears.
Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd
Corruption. Whofo feeks an audit here
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,
Wildfowl or ven'son, and his errand speeds.
But fafter far, and more than all the reft,
A noble caufe, which none who bears a spark
Of public virtue ever wish'd remov❜d,
Works the deplor'd and mischievous effect.
'Tis univerfal foldiership has ftabb'd
The heart of merit in the meaner class.
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage
Of those that bear them, in whatever cause,
Seem most at variance with all moral good,
And incompatible with serious thought.
The clown, the child of nature, without guile,
Bleft with an infant's ignorance of all
But his own fimple pleasures, now and then
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair;
Is ballotted, and trembles at the news:
Sheepish he doffs his hat, and, mumbling, fwears
A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please,
To do he knows not what. The task perform'd,
That inftant he becomes the ferjeant's care,
His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.
His awkward gait, his introverted toes,
Bent knees, round fhoulders, and dejected looks,
Procure him many a curfe. By flow degrees,
Unapt to learn, and form'd of ftubborn ftuff,
He yet by flow degrees puts off himself,
Grows confcious of a change, and likes it well:
He ftands ere&; his flouch 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
His hat, or his plum'd helmet, with a grace;
And his three years of herofhip expir'd,
Returns indignant to the flighted plough.
He hates the field, in which no fife or drum
Attends him, drives his cattle to a march,
And fighs for the smart comrades he has left:
'Twere well if his exterior change were allBut with his clumsy port the wretch has loft His ignorance and harmless manners too.
To fwear, to game, to drink; to fhew at home,
By lewdness, idleness, and fabbath-breach,
The great proficiency he made abroad;
T'astonish and to grieve his gazing friends;
To break fome maiden's and his mother's heart;
To be a peft where he was ufeful once;
Are his fole aim, and all his glory now.
Man in society is like a flow'r
Blown in its native bed: 'tis there alone
His faculties, expanded in full bloom,
Shine out; there only reach their proper use.
But man, affociated and leagu'd with man
By regal warrant, or felf-join'd by bond
For intereft-fake, or fwarming into clans
Beneath one head for purposes of war,
Like flow'rs felected from the rest, and bound
And bundled clofe to fill fome crowded vafe,
Fades rapidly, and, by compreffion marr'd,
Contracts defilement not to be endur❜d.
Hence charter'd boroughs are fuch public plagues;
And burghers, men immaculate perhaps
In all their private fun&tions, once combin'd,
Become a loathfome body, only fit
For diffolution, hurtful to the main.
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of fin
Against the charities of domeftic life,
Incorporated, feem at once to lofe
Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard
For mercy and the common rights of man,
Build factories with blood, condu&ing trade
At the fword's point, and dying the white robe
Of innocent commercial justice red.
Hence too the field of glory, as the world
Mifdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,
With all its majefty of thund'ring pomp,
Enchanting mufic and immortal wreaths,
Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught
On principle, where foppery atones
For folly, gallantry for ev'ry vice.
But flighted 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 ftill.
I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan,
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss,
But there I laid the fcene. There early stray'd
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural, rural too
The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, affembling, as he sang,
The ruftic throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms :
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence; I danc'd for joy.
I marvel'd much that at fo ripe an age
As twice fev'n years, his beauties had then first
Engag'd my wonder, and admiring ftill,
And still admiring, with regret fuppos'd
The joy half loft because not sooner found.
Thee too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit
Determin'd, and poffeffing it at last
With transports such as favor'd lovers feel,
I ftudied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and though now reclaimed,
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