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And though at best, and in thy sob'rest mood,
A trifler vain, and empty of all good;

Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none,
Hear nature plead, show mercy to thy son.
Sav'd from his home, where ev'ry day brings forth
Some mischief fatal to his future worth,
Find him a better in a distant spot,
Within some pious pastor's humble cot,
Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean,
The most seducing and the oft'nest seen)

May never more be stamp'd upon his breast,

Nor yet perhaps incurably impress'd:

Where early rest makes early rising sure,
Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure,
Prevented much by diet neat and plain;
Or if it enter, soon starv'd out again :-
Where all th' attention of his faithful host,
Discreetly limited to two at most,

May raise such fruits as shall reward his care,
And not at last evaporate in air :-
Where stillness, aiding study, and his mind
Serene, and to his duties much inclin'd,
Not occupied in day dreams, as at home,
Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come,
His virtuous toil may terminate at last
In settled habit and decided taste.

*

And, if it 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.

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And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-this building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less.

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EXTRACTS FROM POPE'S ESSAY

ON MAN.

PRESUMPTUOUS man! the reason wouldst thou find,
Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind!
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less!
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?

*

If to be perfect in a certain sphere,

What matter soon or late, or here or there?
The blest to-day is as completely so,

As who began a thousand years ago.

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The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv❜n.
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n.

*

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.

*

EXTRACTS From pope's ESSAY ON Man.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher, death, and God adore!
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

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Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor❜d mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the wat❜ry waste,

Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold!
To be, content's his natural desire,

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,

Aspiring to be angels, men rebel;

And who but wishes to invert the laws

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Of order, sins against th' eternal cause.

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Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit ?

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97

In both, to reason right is to submit.

Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
Be pleas'd with nothing, if not blest with all?

Who finds not Providence all good and wise,
Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

Submit. In this, or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear :
Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony, not understood :
All partial evil, universal good.

Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind,
Describe or fix one movement of his mind?
Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend,
Explain his own beginning, or his end?
Alas, what wonder! man's superior part
Uncheck'd may rise, and climb from art to art
But when his own great work is but begun,
What reason weaves, by passion is undone.

And hence one master-passion in the breast,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.

Newton.

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