SECTION VII.
Picture of a Good Man.
SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw, What nothing less than angel can exceed, A man on earth devoted to the skies; Like ships at sea, while in, above the world. With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene, Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm; - All the black cares, and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace. Earth's genuine sons, the scepter'd and the slave, A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd! he sees, Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike! His full reverse in all! What higher praise? What stronger demonstration of the right? The present all their care; the future his. When public welfare calls, or private want, They give to fame; his bounty he conceals. Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt. Mankind's esteem they court; and he his own. Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities; His, the compos'd possession of the true. Alike throughout is his consistent piece, All of one colour, and an even thread; While party-colour'd shreds of happiness, With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe: each puff of fortune blows The tatters by, and shews their nakedness.
He sees with other eyes than theirs: where Behold a sun, he spies a Deity: [they What makes them only smile, makes him adore. Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees; An empire in his balance, weighs a grain. They things terrestrial worship, as divine: His hopes, immortal, blow them by, as dust That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)
He lays aside to find his dignity: No dignity they find in aught besides. They triumph in externals, (which conceal Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse: Himself too much he prizes to be proud, And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. Too dear he holds his int'rest, to neglect Another's welfare, or his right invade : Their int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey. They kindle at the shadow of a wrong: Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n, Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe :
Nought but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.
A cover'd beart their character defends; A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. With nakedness his innocence agrees; While their broad foliage testifies their fall. Their no joys end, where his full feast begins: His joys create, theirs murder future bliss. To triumph in existence, his alone; And his alone triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet began.
His glorious course was, yesterday, complete: Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.
SECTION VIII.
The Pleasures of Retirement.
O KNEW he but his happiness, of men The happiest he! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. What though the dome be wanting, whose proud
Each morning vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, aud in their turn abus'd! Vile intercourse! What tho' the glitt❜ring robe Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not?
What tho' from utmost land and sea purvey'd, For him each rarer tributary life
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps
With luxury, and death? What tho' his bowl Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted alt ? Sure peace is his; a solid life estrang'd To disappointment, and fallacious hope : Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the spring, When heaven decends in showers; or hends the bough When summer reddens, and when autumn beams; Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies
Conceal'd and fattens with the richest sap; These are not wanting; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale; Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breast beneath the shade, Or, thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear. Here too dwells simple truth; plain innocence; Unsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth, Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd; Health ever blooming; unambitious toil; Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.
The Pleasure and Benefit of an Improved and well directed Imagination.
OH! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave
Those ever blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair imagination culls,
To charm th' enliven'd soul! What tho' not all Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envy'd life: tho' only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures, and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. The rural honours his.
His the city's pomp, Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him, the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his loney walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence; not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends; but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home, To find a kindred order; to exert Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight: her femper'd pow'rs Refine at length, and ev'ry passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal Majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler.
Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs ? Would sordid policies, he barb'rous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons: all declare For what th' eternal MAKER has ordain'd The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves His energy divine: he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like Him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions; act upon his plan; And form to his, the relish of their souls.
T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove; 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
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