In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that rais'd the hero, funk the man.
Now Europe's laurels on ther brows behold,
But ftain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd for gold:
Then fee them broke with toils, or funk in ease,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.

Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame

E'er taught to fhine, or fanctify'd from fhame!
What greater blifs attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, ftory'd halls invade,
And haunt their flumbers in the pompous fhade.
Alas! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A tale, that blends their glory with their fhame!

Know then this truth (enough for man to know) "Virtue alone is happiness below."

The only point where human blifs ftands ftill,
And taftes that good without the fall to ill;

Where only merit conftant pay receives,

Is bleft in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain,

And if it lofe, attended with no pain:
Without fatiety, tho' e'er fo bleft,

And but more relish'd as the more distress'd;
The broadeft mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears:
Good, from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd;

Never elated, while one man's opprefs'd;

Never dejected, while another's blefs'd:

And where no wants, no wifhes can remain,
Since but to with more virtue is to gain.

See the fole blifs Heav'n could on all beftow!
Which who but feels can tafte, but think can know :
Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind,
The bad must miss; the good, untaught, will find;
Slave to no fect, who takes no private road,
But looks thro' Nature, up to Nature's God;

Pursues that chain which links th' immenfe defign,

Joins heav'n and earth, and mortal and divine;
Sees, that no being any bliss can know,
But touches fome above, and fome below
Learns from this union of the rifing whole,
The firft, laft purpose of the human foul;
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end, in LOVE OF GOD, and LOVE OF MAN.
For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal,
And opens ftill, and opens on his foul;
Till lengthen'd on to FAITH, and unconfin'd,
It pours the blifs that fills up all the mind.
He fees why Nature plants in Man alone
Hope of known blifs, and faith in blifs unknown:
(Nature, whofe dictates to no other kind

Are given in vain, but what they seek they find)
Wife is her prefent; fhe connects in this
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss;
At once his own bright prospect to be bleft,
And strongest motive to affist the rest.

Self-love thus push'd to focial, to divine,

Gives thee to make thy neighbour's bleffing thine. Is this too little for the boundless heart?

Extend it, let thy enemies have part:

Grafp the whole worlds of reafon, life, and fenfe, In one close system of benevolence:

Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,

And height of bliss but height of charity.

God loves from whole to parts: but human foul Muft rife from individual to the whole.

Self-love but ferves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the small pebble ftirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle strait fucceeds,
Another ftill, and ftill another spreads;
Friend, parent, neighbour, firft it will embrace;
His country next; and next all human race:
Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind

Take ev'ry creature in, of ev'ry kind;

Earth fmiles around, with boundlefs bounty bleft,

And Heav'n beholds its image in his breast.

Come then, my friend! my genius! come along!
Oh mafter of the poet and the fong!

And while the Mufe now ftoops, or now afcends,
To man's low paffions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wife,
To fall with dignity, with temper rife;
Form'd by thy converfe, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to fevere ;
Correct with fpirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reafon, or polite to please.

Oh! while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say fhall my little bark attendant fail,

Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?

When ftatesmen, heroes, kings in duft repose,

Whose fons shall blush their fathers were thy foes
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend?
That, urg'd by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art
From founds to things, from fancy to the heart;