Is duty a mere sport, or an employ?

Life an intrusted talent, or a toy?

Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture, say,
Cause to provide for a great future day,

When, Earth's assign'd duration at an end,

Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend?
The trumpet-will it sound? the curtain rise?
And show th' august tribunal of the skies,
Where no prevarication shall avail,

Where eloquence and artifice shall fail,
The pride of arrogant distinctions fall,

650

And conscience and our conduct judge us all? 660
Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil
To learned cares of philosophic toil,

Though I revere your honourable names,
Your useful labours and important aims,
And hold the world indebted to your aid,
Enrich'd with the discov'ries ye have made;
Yet let me stand excus'd, if I esteem

A mind employ'd on so sublime a theme,

Pushing her bold inquiry to the date
And outline of the present transient state,
And, after poising her advent'rous wings,
Settling at last upon eternal things,

Far more intelligent, and better taught
The strenuous use of profitable thought,
Than ye, when happiest, and enlighten'd most,
And highest in renown, can justly boast.

670

680

A mind unnerv'd, or indispos'd to bear The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires, Must change her nature, or in vain retires. An idler is a watch, that wants both hands, As useless if it goes, as when it stands. Books therefore, not the scandal of the shelves, In which lewd sensualists print out themselves; Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow, With what success let modern manners show; Nor his, who for the bane of thousands born, Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn,

.690

Skilful alike to seem devout and just,
And stab religion with a sly side-thrust;
Nor those of learn'd philologists, who chase
A panting syllable through time and space,
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark,
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark;
But such as Learning without false pretence,
The friend of Truth, th' associate of Good Sense,
And such as, in the zeal of good design,

Strong Judgment lab'ring in the Scripture mine,
All such as manly and great souls produce,
Worthy to live, and of eternal use:

Behold in these what leisure hours demand,

Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand.
Luxury gives the mind a childish cast,

And, while she polishes, perverts the taste;
Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length one gen'ral cry,
Tickle and entertain us, or we die.

700

The loud demand, from year to year the same, Beggars Invention, and makes Fancy lame; 710

Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune,

Calls for the kind assistance of a tune;

And novels (witness ev'ry month's review)
Belie their name, and offer nothing new.
The mind, relaxing into needful sport,

Should turn to writers of an abler sort,
Whose wit well manag'd, and whose classic style,
Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.

Friends (for I cannot stint, as some have done,
Too rigid in my view, that name to one;
Though one, I grant it, in the gen'rous breast
Will stand advanc'd a step above the rest:
Flow'rs by that name promiscuously we call,
But one, the rose, the regent of them all)---
Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste,
But chosen with a nice discerning taste,
Well-born, well-disciplin'd, who, plac'd apart

720

From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,

And, though the world may think th' ingredients

odd,

The love of virtue, and the fear of God;

730

Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed,

A temper rustic as the life we lead,

And keep the polish of the manners clean,

As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene;

For solitude, however some may rave,
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave,

A sepulchre, in which the living lie,

Where all good qualities grow sick and die.

I praise the Frenchman, his remark was shrewd

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper-solitude is sweet.
Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside,
That appetite can ask, or wealth provide,
Can save us always from a tedious day,

Or shine the dulness of still life away;

740