'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked feat,
The Sylvans groan-no matter for the Fleet:
Next goes his Wool-to clothe our valiant bands,
Laft, for his Country's love, he fells his Lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her Spoils ?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless Conntry leaves him to her Laws.
The Senfe to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,
Not funk by floth, not rais'd by fervitude;
To balance Fortune by a just expence,
Join with Oeconomy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, Bathurft! yet unfpoil'd by wealth!
After ver 218. in the MS.
Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their Lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty mifapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd a while and dy'd;
There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And fhewing H-y, teach the golden mean.
After ver. 226. in the MS.
The fecret rare, which affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n loft, yet B-y ne'er could find:
Still mifs'd by Vice, and fearce by Virtue hit,
By G-'s goodness, or by S-'s wit,
That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. To Worth or Want well-weigh'd, be Bounty given, And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in juft proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergris, a ftink it lies,
But well difpers'd, is incense to the Skies.
P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats ? The Wretch that trufts them, and the Rogue that cheats. Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatterer, or Buffoon?
Whose table, Wit, or modeft Merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a Gamefter, Pimp, or Player?
Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, English Bounty yet a while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why fhould Lords engross?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds.
After ver. 250. in the MS.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whofe feats the weary Traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread !
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state, 265
Where Age and Want fit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
any fick? the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and givès. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the Courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing Quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say, what fums that generous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children
This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a-year.
Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your
Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays.
B. And what? no monument, infcription, ftone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his Name: Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end; Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live-long wig, which Gorgon's felf might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian tone.
Behold what bleffings Wealth to life can lend!
And fee, what comfort it affords our end.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
Ver. 287. Thus in the MS.
The Regifter inrolls him with his Poor,
Tells he was born, and dy'd, and tells no more.
Juft as he ought, he fill'd the Space between;
Then ftole to reft unheeded and unfeen.
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of Pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring
'Of mimick'd Statesmen, and their merry King. No Wit to flatter, left of all his store!
No Fool to laugh at, which he valued more,
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And Fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, " Live like me!"
As well his Grace reply'd, " Like you, Sir John?
"That I can do, when all I have is gone.”
Refolve me, Reason, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd,
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houses fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power,
For very want; he could not pay a dower.
A few gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd, 'Twas very want that fold them for two pound. What! even deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the Doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had !
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