a See voluntecrs in all the vilest arts, Men well endow'd, of honourable parts, Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools ; All these, and more like these, were bred at schools; And if by chance, as sometimes chance it will, That though school-bred, the boy be virtuous still ; Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark, Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark: As here and there a twinkling star descried Serves but to show how black is all beside. Now look on him, whose very voice in tone Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own, And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, And say, “My boy, th' unwelcome hour is come, When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, And trust for safety to a stranger's care; What character, what turn thou wilt assume From constant converse with I know not whom: Who there will court thy friendship, with what views; And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; Though much depends on what thy choice shall be, Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.”. Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids, And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids, Free too, and under no constraining force, Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; Lay such a stake upon the losing side, Merely to gratify so blind a guide ? Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart, Condemns th' unfatherly, th' imprudent part. Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tend'rest plea, Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way; Then, only govern’d by the self-same rule" Of nat'ral pity, send him not to school. No-guard him better. Is he not thine own, compass that good end, forecast the means. Oh, barb'rous ! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools what!-all the schools i' th' land; а 330 TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. THE YEARLY DISTRESS; OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country Clergyman complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, The burden of my song. Three quarters of a year, When tithing time draws near. As one at point to die, He heaves up many a sigh. Along the miry road, To make their payments good. Is not to be express'd, pays The clumsy swains alight, He trembles at the sight. Each bumpkin of the clan, Will cheat him if he can. up So in they come each makes his leg, And Alings his head before, And not to quit a score. The little boy and all ?” Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?" Were e'er such hungry folk? It is no time to joke. One spits upon the floor, Holds the cloth before. And lumpish still as ever; They only weigh the heavier. Come, neighbours, we must wag”- Each lugging out his bag. And one of storms of hail, By maggots at the tail. In pulpit none shall hear: You sell it plaguy dear." Or clergy made so fine ? A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine. 66 a |