See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms,
And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's
'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.
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,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir to keep and spare,
The next a fountain spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth.
What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,
With soups unbought, and salads, bless'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before:
To cram the rich was prodigal expense;
And who would take the poor from Providence?
Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round;
Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way;
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the sav'd candle and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right:
(For what to shun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow is a task indeed!)
Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin fortunes than to raise.
What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious squire and deep divine!
Yet no mean motive this profusion draws;
His oxen perish in his country's cause;
'Tis George and liberty that crowns the cup,
And zeal for that great house which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,
The sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet;
Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands;
Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils?
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause;
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.
The sense to value riches, with the art
'T enjoy them, and the virtue to impart;
Not meanly nor ambitiously pursued,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expense,
Join with economy magnificence;
With splendour charity, with plenty health;
O teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth,
That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.
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)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd,
As poison heals in just proportion us'd:
In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But well dispers'd is incense to the skies.
P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that
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 your blaze!
Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays!
B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone, His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
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