Each kind pursues his proper good,
And seeks for pleasure, rest, and food,
As nature points, and never errs
In what it chooses and prefers;
Man only blunders, though possest
Of talents far above the rest.

Descend to instances and try;
An ox will scarce attempt to fly,
Or leave his pasture in the wood,
With fishes to explore the flood.
Man only acts, of every creature,
In opposition to his nature.
The happiness of human kind,
Consists in rectitude of mind,
A will subdu'd to reason's sway,
And passions practis'd to obey;
An open and a gen'rous heart,
Refin'd from selfishness and art;
Patience which mocks at fortune's pow'r,
And wisdom never sad nor sour:
In these consist our proper bliss;
Else Plato reasons much amiss:
But foolish mortals still pursue
False happiness in place of true;
Ambition serves us for a guide,
Or lust, or avarice, or pride;
While reason no assent can gain,
And revelation warns in vain.

Hence through our lives, in every stage,
From infancy itself to age,
A happiness we toil to find,
Which still avoids us like the wind;

Ev'n when we think the prize our own,
At once 'tis vanish'd, lost, and gone.
You'll ask me why I thus rehearse
All Epictetus in my verse,
And if I fondly hope to please
With dry reflections such as these,
So trite, so hackney'd, and so stale?
I'll take the hint and tell a tale.

One ev'ning as a simple swain
His flock attended on the plain,
The shining bow he chanc'd to spy,
Which warns us when a show'r is nigh;
With brightest rays it seem'd to glow,
Its distance eighty yards or so.
This bumpkin had it seems been told
The story of the cup of gold,
Which Fame reports is to be found
Just where the rainbow meets the ground;
He therefore felt a sudden itch
To seize the goblet and be rich;
Hoping, (yet hopes are oft but vain):
No more to toil through wind and rain,
But sit indulging by the fire,
'Midst ease and plenty, like a 'squire:
He mark'd the very spot of land
On which the rainbow seem'd to stand,
And stepping forwards at his leisure
Expected to have found the treasure.
But as he mov'd, the colour'd ray
Still chang'd its place and slipt away,
As seeming his approach to shun;
From walking he began to run,
But all in vain, it still withdrew
As nimbly as he cou'd pursue;
At last through many a bog and lake,
Rough craggy road and thorny brake,
It led the easy fool, till night
Approach'd, then vanish'd in his sight,

And left him to compute his gains, With nought but labour for his pains.

CELIA AND HER MIRROR.
As there are various sorts of minds,
So friendships are of diffrent kinds :
Some, constant when the object's near,
Soon vanish if it disappear.
Another sort, with equal flame,
In absence will be still the same :
Some folks a trifle will provoke,
Their weak attachment soon is broke;
Some great offences only move
To change in friendship or in love.
Affection, when it has its source

In things that shift and change of course,
As these diminish and decay,

Must likewise fade and melt away.
But when 'tis of a nobler kind,
Inspir'd by rectitude of mind,
Whatever accident arrives,

It lives, and death itself survives;
Those different kinds reduc'd to two,
False friendship may be call'd, and true.
In Celia's drawing-room of late
Some female friends were met to chat;
Where after much discourse had past,
A portrait grew the theme at last:
'Twas Celia's you must understand,
And by a celebrated hand.

Says one, "That picture sure must strike,
In all respects it is so like;

Your very features, shape and air
Express'd, believe me, to a hair:
The price I'm sure cou'd not be small,"
"Just fifty guineas frame and all."-
"That mirror there is wond'rous fine.".
"I own the bauble cost me nine;
I'm fairly cheated you may swear,
For never was a thing so dear."—
"Dear!"-quoth the looking-glass-and spoke,
"Madam, it wou'd a saint provoke:
Must that same gaudy thing be own'd
A pennyworth at fifty pound;
While I at nine am reckon'd dear,
'Tis what I never thought to hear.
Let both our merits now be try'd,
This fair assembly shall decide;
And I will prove it to your face,
That you are partial in the case.
I give a likeness far more true
Than any artist ever drew:
And what is vastly more, express
Your whole variety of dress:

From morn to noon, from noon to night,
I watch each change and paint it right;
Besides I'm mistress of the art,
Which conquers and secures a heart.
I teach you how to use those arms,
That vary and assist your charms,
And in the triumphs of the fair,
Claim half the merit for my share:
So when the truth is fairly told,
I'm worth at least my weight in gold;
But that vain thing of which you speak
Becomes quite useless in a week.
For, though it had no other vice,
'Tis out of fashion in a trice:

The cap is chang'd, the cloke, the gown;
It must no longer stay in town;
But goes in course to hide a wall
With others in your country-hall."
The mirror thus :-the nymph reply'd,
"Your merit cannot be deny'd:
The portrait too, I must confess,
In some respects has vastly less.
But you yourself will freely grant
That it has virtues which you want.
'Tis certain that you can express
My shape, my features, and my dress,
Not just as well, but better too
Than Kneller once or Ramsay now.
But that same image in your heart
Which thus excels the painter's art,
The shortest absence can deface,
And put a monkey's in its place:
That other which the canvas bears,
Unchang'd and constant, lasts for years,
Wou'd keep its lustre and its bloom
Though it were here and I at Rome.
When age and sickness shall invade
Those youthful charms and make them fade,
You'il soon perceive it, and reveal
What partial friendship shou'd conceal:
You'il teli me, in your usual way,

Of furrow'd cheeks and locks grown gray;
Your gen'rous rival, not so cold,
Will ne'er suggest that I am old;
Nor mark when time and slow disease
Have stol'n the graces wont to please;
But keep my image to be seen
In the full blossom of sixteen:
Bestowing freely all the praise
I merited in better days.

You will (when I am turn'd to dust,
For beauties die, as all things must,
And you remember but by seeing)
Forget that e'er I had a being :
But in that picture I shall live,
My charms shall death itself survive,
And figur'd by the pencil there
Tell that your mistress once was fair.
Weigh each advantage and defect,
The portrait merits most respect:
Your qualities would recommend
A servant rather than a friend;
But serv.ce sure, in every case,
To friendship yields the higher place."

THE FISHERMEN.

IMITATED FROM THEOCRITUS.

By all the sages 'tis confest
That hope when moderate is best:
But when indulg'd beyond due measure,
It yields a vain deceitful pleasure,
Which cheats the simple, and betrays
To mischief in a thousand ways:
Just hope assists in all our toils,
The wheels of industry it oils;
In great attempts the bosom fires,
And zeal and constancy inspires.
False hope, like a deceitful dream,
Rests on some visionary scheme,
And keeps us idle to our loss,
Enchanted with our hands across,

A tale an ancient bard has told
Of two poor fishermen of old,
Their names were (lest I should forget
And put the reader in a pet,

Lest critics too shou'd make a pother)
The one Asphelio, Gripus t'other.
The men were very poor, their trade
Cou'd scarce afford them daily bread;
Though ply'd with industry and care
Through the whole season, foul and fair.
Upon a rock their cottage stood,
On all sides bounded by the flood:

It was a miserable seat,

Like cold and hunger's worst retreat:
And yet it serv'd them both for life,
As neither cou'd maintain a wife;
Two walls were rock, and two were sand,
Ramm'd up with stakes and made to stand,
A roof hung threat'ning o'er their heads
Of boards half-rotten, thatch'd with reeds.
And as no thief e'er touch'd their store,
A hurdle serv'd them for a door.
Their beds were leaves; against the wall
A sail hung drying, yard and all.
On one side lay an old patch'd wherry
Like Charon's on the Stygian ferry:
On t' other, baskets and a net,
With sea-weed foul and always wet.
These sorry instruments of trade
Were all the furniture they had:
For they had neither spit nor pot,
Unless my author has forgot.

Once, some few hours ere break of day,
As in their hut our fishers lay,

The one awak'd and wak'd his neighbour, That both might ply their daily labour;

For cold and hunger are confest

No friends to indolence or rest.

Friend," quoth the drowsy swain, and swore, "What you have done has hurt me more Than all your service can repay

For years to come by night and day;

You've broke the thought on't makes me mad→→→ The finest dream that e'er I had."

[piove

Quoth Gripus: "Friend your speech wou'd
You mad indeed, or else in love;
For dreams shou'd weigh but light with those
Who feel the want of food and clothes:

I guess, though simple and untaught,
You dream'd about a lucky draught,
Or money found by chance: they say,
That hungry foxes dream of prey.”

"You're wond'rous shrewd, upon my troth,"
Asphelio cry'd," and right in both:
My dream had gold in't, as you said,
And fishing too, our constant trade;
And since your guess has hit so near,
In short the whole on't you shall hear.

"Upon the shore I seem'd to stand,
My rod and tackle in my hand;
The baited hook full oft I threw,
But still in vain, I nothing drew:
A fish at last appear'd to bite,
The cork div'd quickly out of sight,
And soon the dipping rod I found
With something weighty bent half round:
Quoth I, Good luck has come at last,
I've surely made a happy cast:
This fish, when in the market sold,
In place of brass will sell for gold:'

To bring it safe within my reach
I drew it safely to the beach,
But long ere it had come so near,

The water gleam'd with something clear;
Each passing billow caught the blaze,
And glitt'ring shone with golden rays.
Of hope and expectation full
Impatient, yet afraid to pull,

To shore I slowly brought my prize,
A golden fish of largest size:
'Twas metal all from head to tail,
Quite stiff and glitt'ring ev'ry scale.
Thought I, My fortune now is made;
'Tis time to quit the fishing trade,
And choose some other, where the gains
Are sure, and come for half the pains.
Like creatures of amphibious nature
One hour on land and three in water;
We live 'midst danger, toil and care,
Yet never have a groat to spare:
While others, not expos'd to harm,
Grow rich, though always dry and warm;
This treasure will suffice, and more,
To place me handsomely on shore,
In some snug manor; now a swain,
My steers shall turn the furrow'd plain,
While on a mountain's grassy side
My flocks are past'ring far and wide:
Beside all this, I'll have a seat
Convenient, elegant and neat,
A house not over-great nor small,
Three rooms, a kitchen, and a hall.
The offices contriv'd with care
And fitted to complete a square:
A garden well laid out; a wife,
To double all the joys of life;
With children prattling at my knees,
Such trifles as are sure to please.'
Those gay designs, and twenty more,
I in my dream was running o'er,
While you, as if you ow'd me spite.
Broke in and put them all to flight,
Blew the whole vision into air,
And left me waking in despair.
Of late we have been poorly fed,
Last night went supperless to bed,
Yet, if I had it in my pow'r
My dream to lengthen for an hour,
The pleasure mounts to such a sum,
I'd fast for fifty yet to come.
Therefore to bid me rise is vain
I'll wink and try to dream again."
"If this," quoth Gripus,
"is the way
You choose, I've nothing more to say;
'Tis plain that dreams of wealth will serve
A person who resolves to starve;
But sure, to hug a fancy'd case,
That never did nor can take place,
And for the pleasures it can give
Neglect the trade by which we live,
Is madness in its greatest height,
Or I mistake the matter quite ;
Leave such vain fancies to the great,
For folly suits a large estate:
The rich may safely deal in dreams,
Romantic hopes and airy schemes.
But you and I, upon my word,
Such pastime cannot well afford;
And therefore if you would be wise,
Take my advice, for once, and rise."

CUPID AND THE SHEPHERD.

WHO sets his heart on things below,
But little happiness shall know;
For every objeet he pursues
Will vex, deceive him, and abuse:
While he whose hopes and wishes rise
To endless bliss above the skies,

A true felicity shall gain,

With freedom from both care and pain.
He seeks what yields him peace and rest,
Both when in prospect and possest.

A swain, whose flock had gone astray,
Was wand'ring far out of the way
Through deserts wild, and chanc'd to see
A stripling leaning on a tree.
In all things like the human-kind,
But that upon his back behind
Two wings were from his shoulders spread
Of gold and azure ting'd with red;
Their colour like the ev'ning sky:
A golden quiver grac'd his thigh:
His bow unbended in his hand
He held, and wrote with on the sand;
As one whom anxious cares pursue,
In musing oft is wont to do.
He started still with sudden fear,
As if some danger had been near,
And turn'd on every side to view
A flight of birds that round him flew,
Whose presence seem'd to make him sad,
For all were ominous and bad;

The hawk was there, the type of spite,
The jealous owl that shuns the light,
The raven, whose prophetic bill
Denounces woe and mischief still;
The vulture hungry to devour,
Though gorg'd and glutted ev'ry hour ;
With these confus'd an ugly crew
Of harpies, bats, and dragons flew,
With talons arm'd, and teeth, and stings,
The air was darken'd with their wings.
The swain, though frighten'd, yet drew near,
Compassion rose in place of fear;

He to the winged youth began,—
"Say, are you mortal and of man,
Or something of celestial birth,

From Heaven descended to the Earth?”
"I am not of terestrial kind,”
Quoth Cupid, "nor to Earth confin'd:
Heav'n is my true and proper sphere,
My rest and happiness are there:
Through all the boundless realms of light
The phoenix waits upon my flight,
With other birds whose names are known
In that delightful place alone.
But when to Earth my course I bend,
At once they leave me and ascend;
And for companions, in their stead,
Those winged monsters there succeed,
Who hov'ring round me night and day,
Expect and claim me as their prey."

Sir," quoth the shepherd, "if you'll try,
Your arrows soon will make them fly;
Or if they brave them and resist,
My sling is ready to assist."

"Incapable of wounds and pain," Reply'd the winged yout again,

"These foes our weapons will defy;
Immortal made, they never die;
But live to haunt me every where,
While I remain within their sphere."

"Sir," quoth the swain, "might I advise,
You straight show'd get above the skies:
It seems indeed your only way,
For nothing here is worth your stay:
Beside, when foes like these molest,
You'll find but little peace or rest."

THE SWAN AND OTHER BIRDS.

EACH candidate for public fame
Engages in a desp'rate game:
His labour he will find but lost,
Or less than half repaid at most:

To prove this point I shall not choose
The arguments which Stoics use;
That human life is but a dream,
And few things in it what they seem:
That praise is vain and little worth,
An empty bauble, and so forth.
I'll offer one, but of a kind
Not half so subtil and refin'd;

Which, when the rest are out of sight,

May sometimes chance to have its weight.
The man who sets his merits high
To glitter in the public eye,
Shou'd have defects but very small,
Or strictly speaking, none at all:

For that success which spreads his fame,
Provokes each envious tongue to blame,
And makes his faults and failings known
Where'er his better parts are shown.

Upon a time, as poets sing,
The birds all waited on their king,
His hymeneal rites to grace;
A flow'ry meadow was the place;
They all were frolicsome and gay
Amidst the pleasures of the day,
And ere the festival was clos'd,
A match at singing was propos'd;
The queen herself a wreath prepar'd,
To be the conqueror's reward;
With store of pinks and daisies in it,
And many a songster try'd to win it,
But all the judges soon confest
The swan superior to the rest,
He got the garland from the bride,
With honour and applause beside:
A tattling goose, with envy stung,
Although herself she ne'er had sung,
Took this occasion to reveal
What swans seem studious to conceal,
And, skill'd in satire's artful ways,
Invective introduc'd with praise.

The swan," quoth she, "upon my word,
Deserves applause from ev'ry bird:
By proof his charming voice you know,
His feathers soft and white as snow;
And if you saw him when he swims
Majestic on the silver streams,
He'd seem complete in all respects:
But nothing is without defects;

For that is true, which few wou'd think,
His legs and feet are black as ink—”.

'Tis not the point in works of art
With care to furnish every part,
That each, to high perfection rais'd,
May draw attention and be prais'd,
An object by itself respected,

Though all the others were neglected:
Not masters only this can do,
But many a vulgar artist too :
We know distinguish'd merit most
When in the whole the parts are lost,
When nothing rises up to shine,
Or draw us from the chief design.
When one united full effect
Is felt before we can reflect,
And mark the causes that conspire
To charm, and force us to admire.
This is indeed a master's part,
The very summit of his art,
And therefore when ye shall rehearse
To friends for trial of your verse,
Mark their behaviour and their way,
As much, at least, as what they say;
If they seem pleas'd, and yet are mute,
The poem's good beyond dispute;
But when they babble all the while,
Now praise the sense, and now the style,
'Tis plain that something must be wrong,
This too weak or that too strong.
The art is wanting which convey's
Impressions in mysterious ways,
And makes us from a whole receive
What no divided parts can give:
Fine writing, therefore, seems of course
Less fit to please at first than worse.
A language fitted to the sense
Will hardly pass for eloquence.
One feels its force, before he sees

The charm which gives it pow'r to please,

And ere instructed to admire,

Will read and read and never tire.

But when the style is of a kind

Which soars and leaves the sense behind, 'Tis something by itself, and draws From vulgar judges dull applause; They'll yawn, and tell you as you read, "Those lines are mighty fine indeed;"

But never will your works peruse At any time, if they can choose. 'fis not the thing which men call wit, Nor characters, though truly hit, Nor flowing numbers soft or strong, That bears the raptur'd soul along; 'Tis something of a diff'rent kind, 'Tis all those skilfully combin'd, To make what critics call a whole, Which ravishes and charms the soul. Alexis, by fair Celia's scorn To grief abandon'd and forlorn, Had sought in solitude to cover His anguish, like a hopeless lover: With his fond passion to debate,

Gay Strephon sought his rural seat,

And found him with the shepherd's plac'd

Far in a solitary waste.—

"My friend," quoth he, "you're much to This foolish softness quit for shame; Nor fondly doat upon a woman,

[blame;

Whose charms are nothing more than common.
That Celia's handsome I agree,
But Clara's handsomer than she:
Euanthe's wit, which all commend,
Does Celia's certainly transcend :
Nor can you find the least pretence
With Phebe's to compare her sense;
With better taste Belinda dresses,
With truer step the floor she presses;
And for behaviour soft and kind,
Melissa leaves her far behind:

What witchcraft then can fix the chain
Which makes you suffer her disdain,
And not attempt the manly part
To set at liberty your heart?
Make but one struggle, and you'll sce
That in a moment you'll be free."

This Strephon urg'd, and ten times more,
From topics often touch'd before:
In vain his eloquence he try'd;
Alexis, sighing, thus reply'd:-

"If Clara's handsome and a toast,
'Tis all the merit she can boast:
Some fame Euanthe's wit has gain'd,
Because by prudence not restrain'd,
Phebe I own is wondrous wise,
She never acts but in disguise:
Belinda's merit all confess
Who know the mystery of dress:
But poor Melissa on the score
Of mere good-nature pleases more:
In those the reigning charm appears
Alone, to draw our eyes and ears,
No other rises by its side

And shines, attention to divide ;
Thus seen alone it strikes the eye,
As something exquisite and high:
But in my Celia you will find
Perfection of another kind;
Each charm so artfully exprest
As still to mingle with the rest:
Averse and shunning to be known,
An object by itself alone,

But thus combin'd they make a spell
Whose force no human tongue can tell;
A pow'rful magic which my breast
Will ne'er be able to resist :
For as she slights me or complies,
Her constant lover lives or dies."

A

THE RAKE AND THE HERMIT.

YOUTH, a pupil of the town,
Philosopher and atheist grown,
Benighted once upon the road,
Found out a Hermit's lone abode,
Whose hospitality in need
Reliev'd the trav'ler and his steed,
For both sufficiently were tir'd,
Well drench'd in ditches and bemir'd.
Hunger the first attention claims;
Upon the coals a rasher flames,

Dry crusts, and liquor something stale,
Were added to make up a meal;

At which our trav'ler as he sat,

By intervals began to chat

-

"Tis odd," quoth he, "to think what strains Of folly govern some folks' brains :

What makes you choose this wild abode ?
You'll say, 'tis to converse with God:
Alas, I fear, 'tis all a whim;

You never saw or spoke with him.
They talk of Providence's pow'r,
And say it rules us every hour;
To me all nature seems confusion,
And such weak fancies mere delusion.
Say, if it rul'd and govern'd right,
Cou'd there be such a thing as night;
Which, when the Sun bas left the skies,
Puts all things in a deep disguise?
If then a travler chance to stray
The least step from the public way,
He's soon in endless mazes lost,
As I have found it to my cost.
Besides, the gloom which nature wears,
Assists imaginary fears

Of ghosts and goblins from the waves

Of sulph'rous lakes, and yawning graves,
All sprung from superstitious seed,
Like other maxims of the creed.
For my part, I reject the tales
Which faith suggests when reason fails;
And reason nothing understands,
Unwarranted by eyes and hands.
These subtle essences, like wind,
Which some have dreamt of and call mind,
It ne'er admits; nor joins the lie
Which says men rot, but never die.
It holds all future things in doubt,
And therefore wisely leaves them out:
Suggesting what is worth our care,
To take things present as they are,
Our wisest course: the rest is folly,
The fruit of spleen and melancholy."-

"Sir," quoth the hermit, "I agree That reason still our guide shou'd be: And will admit her as the test,

Of what is true and what is best:
But reason sure wou'd blush for shame
At what you mention in her name;
Her dictates are sublime and holy:
Impiety's the child of folly:
Reason with measur'd steps and slow
To things above from things below
Ascends, and guides us through her sphere
With caution, vigilance, and care.
Faith in the utmost frontier stands,
And reason puts us in her hands,
But not till her commission giv'n
Is found authentic, and from Heav'n,