Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My filent fearch in vain requir'd!
No more my fail that deep explores,
No more I fearch those magick fhores;
What regions part the world of Soul,
Or whence thy ftreams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round fuch fairy field,
Some power impart the fpear and fhield,
At which the wizzard Paffions fly,
By which the giant Follies die!

Farewel the porch, whose roof is seen
Arch'd with th' enliv'ning olive's green;
Where Science, prank'd in tiffu'd veft,
By Reafon, Pride, and Fancy drefs'd,
Comes like a bride, fo trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt, in Plato's fhade!

Youth of the quick uncheated fight,
Thy walks, Obfervance, more invite!
O thou, who lov't that ampler range,
Where life's wide profpects round thee change,
And, with her mingling fons allied,
Throw'ft the prattling page afide;
To me in converfe fweet impart,
To read in man the native heart;
To learn where Science fure is found,
From Nature as fhe lives around i

And

And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each fhifting image view;
Till meddling Art's officious lóre
Reverse the leffons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school:
Thou, Heav'n, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft blefs'd this focial fcience most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent fpell,
Not vain fhe finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask;
Behold, before her mufing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rife;
While ever varying as they pafs,
To fome Contempt applies her glafs:
With these the white-rob'd maids combine,
And those the laughing fatyrs join!
But who is he whom now the views
In robe of wild, contending hues?
Thou, by the paffions nurs'd, I greet
The comic fock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whofe name is known
To Britain's favour'd ifle alone;

Me, too, amidst thy band admit,

There, where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,

(Whofe jewels in his crifped hair

Are plac'd, each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)

In laughter loos'd attends thy fide!
By old Miletus*, who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong;
By all you taught the Tufcan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades;

Alluding to the Milefian Tales, fome of the earliest romances.

By him whofe knight's diftinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;

Whose tales, e’en now, with echoes sweet,
Caftalia's Moorish hills repeat:

Or him +, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds, on Gallia's fhore;
Who drew the fad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her fire betray'd.

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy feal!

Let fome retreating cvnick find

Thofe oft-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind;
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy sceneful world with thee!

Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas De Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.

An old good lady, who kept a lodging houfe in Beverly, with whom the author boarded when at that school under the Rev. Mr. Clarke.

But

But to the beggar and the king,
Clean linen's a reviving thing;

Yet these our plagues don't reach :
The beggar ftrips with jocund morn,
In fome quick ftream, and on the thorn
Spreads out his rags to bleach.

The king, great man, fends all his out,
Not caring for a fingle clout :

But what's more happy still,
He's not oblig'd to count the rags,
Nor ftuff 'em into canvass bags;
Oh! no-nor write the bill.

But Lord have mercy on us all!
Whene'er we wash, all hands muft fall
To fomething or another:

For Madam fcolds, and flies about;

Now up, now down, now in, now out,
-Dabbing thro' wet and fmother.

This curfed time all comfort flies,

At fix fhe ftarts, Come, Ned! come, rife!

And get the lines hung out!'

Yes, to be fure, my dear!' I cry:

I dare as well be hang'd as lie,
For fear my dove should pout.

Breakfast is got, and whipp'd away,
(Because the washers want their tea)
Before that I've half done:
The doors all open, linen spread;

The sky looks black- Come hither, Ned,
Shall we have rain or fun?'

My dear, you need not be in pain,
It does not look, I think, like rain.'

O! then we'll hang out more.'
When, lo! the words have hardly pafs'd,
But puff there comes a heavy blast,
And all must be rins'd o'er.

Then ten-fold comes the peal on me:
You afs, to be ten years at fea;

See, fee the linen, do!'

I fneak away, to have a fmile,
Snug, while I hear her all the while
Calling me black and blue.

From fuch unlucky ftorms of rain,
Nothing with me goes well again,

The dinner comes-and cold:

The meat,' I cry, of foap-fuds twangs!"

Up Madam gets, the door fhe bangs,

And re-begins to fcold.

But what ftill troubles more my mind,
Amidst fuch griefs at once to find

The washer, as the wrings,
Cracking fome jeft; then o'er the tub
Paufes a while, and ev'ry rub

With pleasure sweats and fings.

I hate, I must confefs, all dirt,
And truly love a well-wafh'd fhirt ;
Yet once a month this reek

Is more than any one can bear:

But him I hate-pray make his share
A washing ev'ry week.

HÝM N