And the fond father sits on t'other side,

Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride.

Childhood, who like an April morn appears Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears, Pleas'd and displeas'd by starts, in passion warm, In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm, Like to the fretful billows of the deep,

Soon spends his rage and cries himself asleep:
Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd,
For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd,
His trembling lash suspended in the air,
Half-bent, and stroking back his long, lank hair,
Shall to his mates look up with eager glee
And let his top go down-

Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain, Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign, Impatient urges on, yet, with a cast

Of dear regard, looks back on Childhood past,
In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high,
And the quick spirits mount into his eye;
When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth,
Beats in his heart, and paints his cheek with

health,

When the chaf'd steed tugs proudly at the rein, And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain; When wing'd with fear the stag flies full in view, And in full cry the eager hounds pursue,

Shall shout my praise

Manhood, of form erect, who would not bow Though worlds should crack around him; on his brow

Wisdom serene, to passion giving law,
Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe;

Dignity into grace by mildness wrought;
Courage attemper'd, and refin'd by thought:
Virtue supreme enthron'd within his breast,
The image of his Maker deep impress'd;
Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod,
With reason bless'd and only less than God;
Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid,
Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd,
Though, cloth'd with sackcloth, Justice in the
gates,

By wicked elders chain'd, redemption waits,
Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour,
(Is't not a little one?) to hail my power.

Old Age, a second child, by Nature curst
With more and greater evils than the first:
Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breath
Railing at life, and yet afraid of death;
Putting things off with grave and solemn air,
From day to day without one day to spare;
Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf,
Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself;
His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd,
His memory of recent things devour'd
Ev'n with the acting on his shatter'd brain,
Though the false registers of youth remain :
From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise,
Of those rare men, who liv'd in those rare days,
When he, the hero of his tale, was young,
Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue;
Praising grey hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's

sway,

Ev'n while he curses Time which made hi

grey;

Scoffing at youth, ev'n whilst he would afford
All but his gold to have his youth restor'd,
Shall for a moment, from himself set free,
Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me.
Churchill.

THE GENTLEMAN.

ADDRESSED TO JOHN JOLIFFE, ESQ.

A DECENT mien, an elegance of dress,
Words, which, at ease, each winning grace express;
A life, where love, by wisdom polish'd, shines,
Where wisdom's self again, by love refines;
Where we to chance for friendship never trust,
Nor ever dread from sudden whim disgust;
The social manners and the heart humane;
A nature ever great and never vain;
A wit, that no licentious pertness knows;
The sense, that unassuming candour shows:
Reason, by narrow principles uncheck'd,
Slave to no party, bigot to no sect;

Knowledge of various life, of learning too;
Thence taste; thence truth, which will from taste

ensue:

Unwilling censure, though a judgment clear;
A smile indulgent, and that smile sincere;
An humble, though an elevated mind;
A pride, its pleasure but to serve mankind:
If these esteem and admiration raise,
Give true delight, and gain unflattering praise;
In one wish'd view, th' accomplish'd man we see,
These graces all are thine, and thou art he.

Savage.

1

THE MAN OF ROSS.

.......ALL our praises why should lords engross?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross!
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
'The Man of Ross,' each lisping 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,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
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 a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?

Of debts, and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year.

Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!

Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

And what! no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown! Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name: Go, search 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. Pope.

THE CAMELEON.

OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud conceited talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly serv'd at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen:
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop:
'But, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen and sure I ought to know’—
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd,
And on their way in friendly chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then of that,