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See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms,
arms !” 'Twas no court-badge, great scrivener! fir'd thy
brain, Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain: No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham’d to see Senates degenerate, patriots disagree, And nobly wishing party-rage to cease, To buy both sides, and give thy country peace.
“All this is madness,” cries a sober sage : “ But who, my friend, has reason in his rage? The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still.” Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame Than e’en that passion, if it has no aim; For though such motives folly you may call, The folly's greater to have none at all. (sends,
Hear then the truth :" 'Tis heaven each passion And different men directs to different ends. Extremes in nature equal good produce; Extremes in man concur to general use.” Ask me what makes one keep, and one bestow ? That power who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain, Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain ; Builds life on death, on change duration founds, And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight,
Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
The sense to value riches, with the art
B. To worth or want well weigh'd be bounty And ease or emulate the care of heaven: [given,
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue
that cheats. Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? Whose table wit or modest merit share, Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player ? Who copies yours or Oxford's better part, To ease th’ oppress’d, and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O Fortune! gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden mean! There English bounty yet a while may stand, And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross :* Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
4 Mr. John Kyrle, a worthy citizen of Herefordshire, who, with a small estate, passed his long life in contriving and advancing plans of public utility.
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary
traveller repose ? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? “ The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate: Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, The
young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any
sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives: Is there a variance? enter but his door, Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more: Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue What all so wish, but want the power to do ! Oh
say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines to swell that boundless charity ? P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children
clear, This man possess'd—five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw
Ye little stars, hide your
rays ! B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone, His race, his form, his name almost unknown ?