The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 't is not hard to find; 175 But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight Pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-acrown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; He who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he who now to sense, now nonsense, leaning, 185 Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! 345 That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown, 350 Th' imputed trash and dullness not his own; The morals blackened when the writings 395 The good man walked innoxious through his age. No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. Unlearned, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, No language but the language of the heart. His death was instant and without a groan. O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: Me, let the tender office long engage To rock the cradle of reposing Age, With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath, 410 Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death; Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, Thou Great First Cause, least understood, 5 To know but this, that thou art good, Yet gave me, in this dark estate, And binding Nature fast in Fate, What Conscience dictates to be done, This teach me more than Hell to shun, What blessings thy free bounty gives For God is paid when man receives; Yet not to earth's contracted span Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round. Let not this weak unknowing hand And deal damnation round the land If I am right, thy grace impart, If I am wrong, O teach my heart Save me alike from foolish Pride Teach me to feel another's woe, 10 15 That mercy I to others show, Through this day's life or death! To Thee, whose temple is all Space, One chorus let all Being raise, 40 45 50 5 20 25 25 30 Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. AN ODE THE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Cloe is my real flame. 20 1707 A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT LOVELY, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human-kind! Heavenly-born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head: What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and ease! Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Encreasing Avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, 5 10 15 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20 Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks, as I have vainly done, Amusing thought; but learns to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest.' Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat, Might I thus my soul employ, 45 60 Pleased and blessed with God alone: Should be sung, and sung by me: Or own the next begun in this. 1714 70 70 75 That solitude's the nurse of woe. A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH |