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But let the wise and well-instructed hand
Once take the shell beneath his just command,
In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd
Of the rude injuries it late sustain❜d,
Till tun'd at length to some immortal song,
It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise
-studiis florens ignobilis ott.
VIRG. Georg. Lib. 4.
HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
To regions where, in spite of sin and wo,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth, Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care,
If, ere we yet discern life's ev'ning star,
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds
It's patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
To serve the Sov'reign we were born to obey.