A Pride in honest Fame, by Virtue gain'd,
In sturdy Boys to virtuous Labours train'd;
Pride, in the Power that guards his Country's Coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a Life that Slander's tongue defy'd,
In fact, a noble Passion, misnam'd Pride.

He had no Party's rage, no Sect'ry's whim;
Christian and Countryman was all with him:
True, to his Church he came; no Sunday-Shower,
Kept him at home, in that important hour;
Nor his firm Feet, could one persuading Sect,
By the new Light, to the new way direct;—
"Mine now are Faith and Hope," he said; "Adieu!
"I fear to lose them, in a way so new."

In times severe, when many a sturdy Swain, Felt it his Pride, his Comfort, to complain;

ISAAC their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in that, his Comfort and his Pride.

At length, he found, when Seventy Years were run, His Strength departed and his Labour done; His honest Fame he yet retain'd; no more; His Wife was buried, and his Children poor; 'Twas then, a Spark of-say not DiscontentStruck on his Mind, and thus he gave it vent:

"Kind are your Laws, ('tis not to be denied,)
That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide,
And just, as kind; when young, we give you all,

And then for Comforts in our weakness call.—
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your Poor, and eat the Parish-Bread?

But yet I linger, loath with him to live,
Who, while he feeds me, is as loath to give;
He who, by contract, all your Paupers took,
And guages Stomachs, with an anxious look ;
On some old Master, I could well depend;
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him, who doles the Day's Supply,
And counts our chances, who at Night may die :
Yet help me, Heav'n! to mourn my lot, is vain ;
Mine it is not to choose, but to sustain."

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew;
Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view ;-
But came not there, for sudden was his fate,
He dropp'd expiring, at his Cottage-Gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of Prayer, And view his Seat, and sigh for ISAAC there; I see no more, those white Locks thinly spread, Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that aweful glance, on playful wight Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight; To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister ASHFORD soften'd to a smile; No more that meek, that suppliant look in Prayer, Nor that pure faith, that gave it force-are there: - - But he is blest and I lament no more,

A wise good Man contented to be poor.

Then died a Rambler; not the one who sails And trucks, for female favours, Beads and Nails;

Not one, who posts from place to place-of Men
And Manners treating, with a flying Pen:

Not he, who climbs, for prospects, Snowden's Height,
And chides the clouds, that intercept the sight;
No curious Shell, rare Plant or brilliant Spar,
Intic'd our traveller, from his home, so far;
But all the reason, by himself assign'd
For so much rambling, was, a restless mind;
As on, from place to place, without intent,
Without reflection, ROBIN DINGLEY went.

Not thus by Nature:-never Man was found
Less prone to wander from his Parish Bound;
Claudian's old Man, to whom all scenes were new,
Save those where he, and where his apples, grew;
Resembled ROBIN, who around would look,
And his Horizon, for the Earth's, mistook.

To this poor swain a keen attorney came ;"I give thee joy, good fellow! on thy name; The rich old DINGLEY'S dead;"-no Child has he, Nor Wife, nor Will; his ALL is left for thee; To be his fortune's heir, thy claim is good;

Thou hast the name, and we will prove the blood."
The claim was made; 'twas tried, it would not stand;
They prov'd the blood, but were refus'd the land.
Assur'd of wealth, this Man of simple heart,

To every friend, had predispos'd a part;
His Wife, had hopes indulg'd of various kind;
The three Miss DINGLEY's had their school assign'd,
Masters were sought for what each Miss requir'd,
And books were bought, and harpsichords were hir'd;

So high was hope :-the failure touch'd his brain,
And ROBIN never was himself again :

Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express'd,
But tried, in vain, to labour, or to rest;
Then cast his bundle on his back, and went
He knew not whither, nor for what intent.

Years fled;-of ROBIN all remembrance past,
When home he wander'd in his rags at last:
A Sailor's Jacket, on his limbs was thrown,
A Sailor's Story, he had made his own;
Had suffer'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms,
Encountering death in all his ugliest forms;
His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye,
Where madness lurk'd, conceal'd in misery;
Want, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part,
And prompted cunning, to that simple heart:
"He now bethought him, he would roam no more,
"But live at home, and labour as before."

Here cloth'd and fed, no sooner he began To round and redden, than away he ran : His Wife was dead, their Children past his aid; So, unmolested, from his home he stray'd: Six years elaps'd, when, worn with want and pain, Came ROBIN, wrapt in all his rags, again :— We chide, we pity;—plac'd among our Poor, He fed again, and was a Man once more.

As when a gaunt and hungry fox is found, Entrapp'd alive, in some rich hunter's ground; Fed for the field, although each day's a feast, Fatten you may, but never tame the beast;

An house protects him, savoury viands sustain ;
But loose his neck, and off he goes again:
So stole our Vagrant from his warm retreat,
To rove a Prowler, and be deem'd a Cheat.
Hard was his fare: for, him at length we saw,
In cart.convey'd, and laid supine on straw:
His feeble voice now spoke a sinking heart;
His groans now told the motions of the cart:
And thus he rose, but tried in vain to stand;
Clos'd was his eye and clench'd his clammy hand;
Life ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more,
Could his weak sense or dying heart restore:
But now he fell, a victim to the snare,
That vile attorneys, for the weak prepare ;-
They who, when profit or resentment call,
Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall.

Then died lamented, in the strength of life, A valued MOTHER and a faithful WIFE; Call'd not away, when time had loos'd each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our kind, She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind ;Not when the Ills of age, its Pain, its Care, The drooping Spirit for its fate prepare; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loos'd from Life's charm, and willing to depart ;But ALL her ties, the strong Invader broke, In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke!