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His wandering feet the magic paths pursue;
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

The Ruling Passion.

MANNERS with fortunes, humours turn with climes,
Tenets with books, and principles with times.


Search then the ruling passion: There, alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known ;
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
This clue, once found, unravels all the rest,
The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest.
Wharton the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise;
Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies:
Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke,
The club must hail him master of the joke.
Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too.




Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible to shun contempt;
His passion still, to covet general praise;
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;

A constant bounty, which no friend has made;
An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rash for thought, for action too refined :
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves;

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?
"T was all for fear the knaves should call him fool.

[POPE.-From "Moral Essays," Epistle i.]

Fæsulan Idyl.

ERE, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires,
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,
And softer sighs that know not what they want,
Aside a wall, beneath an orange tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesolé, right up above,


While I was gazing a few paces off

At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap ;
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat;
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them?
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? 'T were most ungrateful: for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory

When hath wind or rain

That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 't is and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart,)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
1 saw the foot that, although half erect
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up

To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gathered her some blossoms; since their hour


Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way through,
And scattering them in fragments under-foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detacht,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said, “ You find the largest."

"This indeed,"

She held one forth,

Cried she, "is large and sweet.”
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it

Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,

Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.


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Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,

And afterward, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread,
Across my funeral stone.


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