As in a dance the pair that take the lead
Turn downward, and the lowest pair fucceed,
So fhifting and fo various is the plan
By which Heav'n rules the mixt affairs of man;
Viciffitude wheels rounds the motley crowd,
The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud ::
Bus'nefs is labour, and man's weakness such,.
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much,
The very fenfe of it foregoes its ufe,
By repetition pall'd, by age obtufe.
Youth loft in diffipation, we deplore
Through life's fad remnant, what no fighs reftore,
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize,
Too many, yet too few to make us wife.
Dangling his cane about, and taking fnuff,
Lothario cries, what philofophic stuff,
Oh querulous and weak! whofe useless brain
Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain,
Whose
eye reverted weeps o'er all the past,
Whole profpect shows thee a difheart'ning wafte;
Would age in thee refign his wintry reign,
And youth invigorate that frame again,
Renew'd defire would grace with other speech
Joys always priz'd, when plac'd within our reach.
For lift thy palfied head, fhake off the gloom
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb,
See nature gay as when she first began,
With fmiles alluring her admirer, man;
She fpreads the morning over eastern hills,
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils;
The fun obedient, at her call appears
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears;
Banks cloath'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with fp: ightly
The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rifing grounds, Streams edg'd with ofiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd ;
From the blue rim where fkies and mountains meet,
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,
Ten thousand charms that only fools defpife,
Or pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes,
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice
Cry to her universal realm, rejoice.
Man feels the fpur of paffions and defires,
And the gives largely more than he requires ;
Not that his hours devoted all to care,
Hollow-ey'd abstinence and lean despair,
The wretch may pine, while to his fmell, taste, fight,
She hold a paradife of rich delight;
But gently to rebuke his aukward fear,
To prove that what the gives, fhe gives fincere,
To banish hesitation, and proclaim
His happiness, her dear, her only aim.
'Tis grave philofophy's abfurdest dream,
That Heav'n's intentions are not what they feem,
That only fhadows are difpens'd below,
And earth has no reality but woe.
Thus things terrestrial wear a diffrent hue,
As youth or age perfuades, and neither true;
So Flora's wreath through colour'd chrystal seen,
The rofe or lily appears blue or green,
But ftill th' imputed tints are thofe alone
The medium reprefents, and not their own. -
To rife at noon, fit flipfhod and undress'd,
To read the news, or fiddle, as feems best,
"Till half the world comes rattling at his door,
To fill the dull vacuity 'till four;
And just when evening turns the blue vault grey,
To spend two hours in dreffing for the day;
To make the fun a bauble without use,
Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce;
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,
Who bids him fhine, or if he fhine or not;
Through mere neceffity to close his eyes
Juft when the larks and when the fhepherds rife,
Is fuch a life, fo tediously the fame,
So void of all utility or aim,
That poor JONQUIL, with almost ev'ry breath
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd, death:
For he, with all his follies has a mind
Not yet
fo blank, or fashionably blind,
But now and then, perhaps, a feeble ray
Of diftant wifdom fhoots across his way,
By which he reads, that life without a plan,
As useless as the moment it began,
Serves merely as a foil for discontent
To thrive in, an incumbrance, ere half spent.
Oh weariness beyond what affes feel.
That tread the circuit of the ciftern wheel;
A dull rotation, never at a stay,
Yesterday's face twin image of to-day,
While converfation, an exhausted stock,
Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock.
No need, he cries, of gravity ftuff d out
With academic dignity devout,
To read wife lectures, vanity the text,
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next,
For truth, fel-evident, with pomp imprefs'd,
Is vanity furpaffing all the reft.
That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, Yet feldom fought, where only to be found, paffion turns afide from its due fcope
Th' enquirer's aim, that remedy, is hope.
Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs,
And ev'ry good and perfect gift proceeds;
Beftow'd on man, like all that we partake,
Royally, freely, for his bounty fake ;
Tranfient indeed, as is the fleeting hour,
And yet the feed of an immortal flow'r,
Defign'd in honour of his endless love,
To fill with fragance his abode above;
No trifle, how foever short it seem,
And howfoever fhadowy, no dream;
Its value, what no thought can afcertain,
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain.
Men deal with life, as children with their play, Who first mifufe, then caft their toys away; Live to no fober purpose, and contend
That their Creator had no ferious end.
When God and man ftand oppofite in view,
Man's disappointment muft of course ensue.
The juft Creator condefcends to write
In beams of inextinguishable light,
His names of wifdom, goodnefs, pow'r and love,
On all that blooms below or fhines above;
To catch the wand'ring notice of mankind,
And teach the world, if not perversely blind,
His gracious attributes, and prove the share
His offspring hold in his paternal care.
If led from earthly things to things divine,
His creature thwart not his august design,
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