Hear then the truth: ""Tis heav'n each passion

"sends,

"And diff'rent men directs to diff'rent ends.

160

"Extremes in nature equal good produce,
"Extremes in man concur to gen'ral use."
Ask me what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain,
Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie,

Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain, spouting thro' his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:

What tho' (the use of barb'rous spits forgot)

His kitchen vy'd in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor❜d,

165

170

175

180

With soups unbought and sallads bless'd his board? If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more

Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before;

To cram the rich was prodigal expence,

And who would take the poor from Providence?

N 2

185

Like

190

Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noon-tide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with sighs the smoakless tow'rs survey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the sav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not so his son, he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong
for right.
(For what to shun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)

Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.

What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine!

195

200

Yet no mean motive this profusion draws,

His oxen perish in his country's cause;

205

'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,

And zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,

Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a Pope.

And

And shall not Britain now regard his toils, 215
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils ?
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

The sense to value riches, with the art
T'enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursu❜d,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expence,

Join with economy, magnificence;

220

224

With splendour, charity; with plenty, health; Oh teach us, BATHURST! yet unspoil'd by wealth! That secret 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 giv'n, And ease, or emulate, the care of Heav'n; 230 (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race;) Mend fortune's fault, and justify her grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd; As poison heals, in just proportion us❜d:

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 misapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd a-while and dy'd:
There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And shewing H—y, teach the golden mean.

After ver. 226. in the MS.

That secret rare,

with affluence hardly join'd,

Which W-n lost, yet B-y ne'er could find;
Still miss'd by vice, and scarce by virtue hit,

By G's goodness, or by S-'s wit.

In

In heaps, like ambergrise, a stink it lies,

235

But well dispers'd, is incense to the skies. P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that

cheats.

240

Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flatt'rer, or buffoon?
Whose table, wit, or modest merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or play'r?
Who copies yours, or OXFORD's better part,
To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, 245
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There, English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the MAN of Ross:
Pleas'd

VER. 242. or play'r?] Alluding to Cibber.

VER. 243. OXFORD's better part,] Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford. The son of Robert, created Earl of Oxford and Earl of Mortimer by Queen Anne. This nobleman died regretted by all men of letters, great numbers of whom had experienced his benefits. He left behind him one of the most noble libraries in Europe.

VER 250. The MAN of Ross:] The person here celebrated, who with a small estate actually performed all these good works, and whose true name was almost lost (partly by the title of the Man of Ross given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without so much as an inscription), was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Ross in Herefordshire.

After ver. 250. in the MS.

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who sings not him, oh may he sing no more!

Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, 251
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,

255

But clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose cause-way parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? 260 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: 266 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, 271 Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race. B. Thrice happy man! enabl'd to pursue What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do! Oh say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply? What mines, to swell that boundless charity?

275

P. Of