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Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one
Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;
The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,
All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's

Why one, like Bu—,* with pay and scorn content,
Bows and votes on in court and parliament;
One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole;
Is known alone to that directing Power
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us still,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will:
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual: His great end the same.

Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy as well as keep.
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
A man so poor would live without a place;
But sure no statute in his favour says,
How free or frugal I shall pass my days;
I who at sometimes spend, at others spare,
Divided between carelessness and care.
"Tis one thing, madly to disperse my store;
Another, not to heed to treasure more;

8 Lord Townshend, Secretary to George the First and Second, on retiring from public life, amused himself with agriculture: he was fond of talking about his turnips.

4 Bubb Dodington, afterwards Lord Melcombe.

5 General Oglethorpe, distinguished for his settlement of the colony in Georgia, and his military exploits.

Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
And pleas'd, if sordid want be far away.

What is❜t to me (a passenger, God wot,)
Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger.
I neither strut with every favouring breath,
Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth;
In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.

'But why all this of avarice? I have none.' I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone: But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad? the avarice of power? Does neither rage inflame nor fear appall? Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? With terrors round, can reason hold her throne, Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown? Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire? Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind? Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end? Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend? Has age but melted the rough parts away, As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay? Or will you think, my friend! your business done, When of a hundred thorns you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd and lov'd, and ate and drank, your fill.

Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age

Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,

Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.



AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne.
Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,

Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms.

Mother too fierce of dear desires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires:

To number five direct your doves,

There spread round Murray' all your blooming


Noble and young, who strikes the heart

With every sprightly, every decent part;
Equal the injur'd to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend.

He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind:
To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit.

1 Afterwards Lord Mansfield.

Then shall they form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His house, embosom'd in the grove,

Sacred to social life and social love,

Shall glitter o'er the pendant green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:
Thither the silver sounding lyres

Shall call the smiling loves and young desires;
There every grace and muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the song;
There youths and nymphs, in consort gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.
With me, alas! those joys are o'er;
For me the vernal garlands bloom no more.
Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The still believing, still renew'd desire:
Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul!
But why? ah! tell me, ah! too dear,
Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear?
Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee?
Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through th' extended dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms, And swiftly shoot along the mall,

Or softly glide by the canal;

Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.




LEST you should think that verse shall die
Which sounds the silver Thames along,

Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay-

Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæsar was or Newton nam'd;
These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those new heavens and systems fram'd.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!

They had no poet, and they died.

In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.

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