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Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, | His fteps the youth purfucs; the country lay
Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length fome pity warm'd the master's breast
'Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest):
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the fhiv'ring pair;
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs recals:
Bread of the coarfeft fort, with meager wine,
(Each hardly granted) ferv'd them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.

Perplex'd with roads, a fervant fhew'd the way:
A river crois'd the path; the paffage o'er
Was nice to find; the fervant trod before:
Long arms of oaks an open bridge fupplied, [glide.
And deep the waves beneath the bending branches
The youth, who feem'd to watch a time to fin,
Approach'd the carclefs guide, and thrust him in:
Plunging he falls, and rifing lifts his head;
Then flaming turns, and finks among the dead.

With ftill remark the pond'ring Hermit view'd,
In one fo rich, a life fo poor and rude;
And why fhould fuch (within himself he cried)
Lock the loft wealth a thoufand want befide ?
But what new marks of wonder foon take place
In ev'ry fettling feature of his face,
When from his veft the young companion bore
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd before,
And paid profafely with the precious bowl
The ftinted kindness of this churlifh foul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The fun emerging opes an azure fky;
A fresher green the fmelling leaves difplay,
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day:
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,
And the glad mafter bolts the wary gate. [wrought
While hence they walk, the Pilgrim's botom
With all the travail of uncertain thought;
His partner's acts without their caufe appear;
'Twas there a vice, and feem'd a madnefs here:
Detefting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Loft and confounded with the various fhows.

Now night's dim fhades again involve the sky;
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie;
Again they fearch, and find a lodging nigh.
The foil improv'd around, the manfion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great,
It feem'd to fpeak its mafter's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise but virtue kind.

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then blefs the manfion, and the mafter greet.
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modeft guife,
The courteous mafter hears, and thus replies:

"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all I yield a part;
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and fober, more than coftly cheer."
He fpoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and clofe the hours with pray'r.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repofe,
Was ftrong for toil; the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant flept,
And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride,
O ftrange return! grew black, and gafp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors! what! his only fon?
How look'd our Hermit when the fact was done
Not hell, tho' hell's black jaws in funder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more affault his heart.
Confus'd and ftruck with filence at the deed,
Fie fics; but, trembling, fails to fly with fpeed.

|

Wild fparkling rage inflames the father's eyes;
He burfts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
"Detefted wretch!"-But fcarce his speech began,
When the ftrange partner feem'd no longer man:
His youthful face grew more ferenely fweet;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points inveft his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whofe colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes difplay
The form ethereal burfts upon his fight,
And moves in all the majefty of light.

Tho' loud at firft the Pilgrim's paffion grew,
Sudden he gaz'd, and wift not what to do;
Surprize in fecret chains his words fufpends,
And in a calm his fettling temper ends.
But filence here the beauteous angel broke
(The voice of mufic ravifh'd as he fpoke):

"Thy pray 'r,thy praife,thy life to vice unknown,
In fweet memorial rife before the throne:
Thefe charms fuccefs in our bright region find,
And force an angel down to calm thy mind;
For this commiflion'd, I forfook the iky-
Nay, ceafe to kneel!-thy fellow-fervant I.

Then know the truth of government Divine,
And let thefe fcruples be no longer thine.

The Maker juftly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its facred majesty through all depends
On ufing fecond means to work his ends;
'Tis thus, withdrawn in ftate from human eye,
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high;
Your actions ufes, nor controuls your will,
And bids the doubting fons of men be still.

What strange events can strike with more fur-
prize,

Than thofe which lately ftruck thy wond'ring eves?
Yet, taught by thefe, confefs th' Almighty just;
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to truft.

The great, vain man, who far'd on coftly food,
Whofe life was too luxurious to be good;
Who made his iv'ry ftands with goblets fhine,
And forc'd his gucfts to morning draughts of wine;
Has, with the cup, the graceless cuftom loft,
And ftill he welcomes, but with lefs of coft.

The mean fufpicious wretch, whofe bolted door
Ne'er mov'd in pity to the wand ring poor,
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That heaven can blefs, if mortals will be kind.
Confcious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compaffion touch his grateful foul.
Thus artifts melt the fullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loofe from drofs. the filver runs below,

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Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, And me fur'd back his steps to earth again. To what excles had his dotage run! But God, to fave the father, took the fon. Toal but thee in fits he feem'd to go; And twas my miniftry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the duft, Na owns in tears the punishment was juft. Bat how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, H-4 that falfe fervant fped in fafety back! This night his treafur'd heaps he meant to fteal, And what a fund of charity would fail! Thus Heaven inftrufts thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, refign, and fin no more."

Or founding pinions here the youth withdrew; The fage food wond ring as the feraph few. Thus look'd Elisha, when to mount on high, His mafter took the chariot of the fky: The fiery pomp afcending left the view; The prophet gaz'd, and wifh'd to follow too. The bending Hermit here a pray'r begun: Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done. Then, gladly turning, fought his ancient place, And pais d a life of piety and peace.

§ 111. The Fire-Side. COTTON.
DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Felly's maze advance;
Tho' fingularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step afide,
Nor join the giddly dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noify neighbour enters here,
No intermedling ftranger near,

To fpoil our heart-felt joys.
If folid happiness we prize,
Within our breaft this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to beftow;
From our own felves our joys muft flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing fhe left
That fafe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The difappointed bird once more

Explor'd the facred bark.

Tho' fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,

By fweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradife below.

Our babes fhall richest comforts bring;

If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleafures ever rife:

We'll ferm their minds, with itodious cargo
To all that manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the kies.
While they our wifeft hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, fupport our age.
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondeft loves repay,
And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own.
While to the world we live unknown

Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,

And blefs our humbler lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!

For nature's calls are few:
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may fuffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relifh, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For, if our stock be very finall,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lofe the prefent hour. To be refign'd when ills betide, Patient when favours are denied,

And pleas'd with favours given; Dear Chloe, this is wifdom's part; This is that incenfe of the heart

Whofe fragrance fmells to heavene
We'll afk no long protracted treat,
Since winter life is feldom fweet;

But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arife,
Nor grudge our fons with envious eyes
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go;
Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious fteps we'll tread;
Quit its vain fcenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.
While confcience, like a faithful friend,
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts ccafe,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

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* Though Dr. Cotton is well known to have been the author of these Visions, they have generally been published without prefixing his name,

And would you wish me to reveal
What thefe fuperior wits conceal?
Forego the fearch, my curious friend,
And hufband time to better end.
All my ambition is, I own,

To profit and to please unknown;
Like reams fupplied from springs below,
Which featter bleffings as they flow.

Were you difeas'd, or prefs'd with pain,
Straight you'd apply to Warwick Lane.
The thoughtful Doctor feels your pulfe
(No matter whether Mead or Hulle)
Writes Arabic to you and me-
Then figns his hand, and takes his fee.
Now, fhould the fage omit his name,
Would not the cure remain the fame ?
Not but phyficians fign their bill,
Or when they cure, or when they kill.
'Tis often known, the mental race
Their fond ambitious fires difgrace.
Dar'd I avow a parent's claim,

Criti s might neer, and friends might blame.
This dang rous fecret let me hide,
I'll tell you ev'ry thing befide:
Not that it boots the world a tittle,
Whether the author's big or little;
Or whether fair, or black, or brown;
No writer's hue concerns the town.

I pais the filent rural hour,
No flave to wealth, no tool to pow'r:
My manfion's warm, and very neat;
You'd fay, A pretty fnug retreat!'
My rooms no coftly paintings grace,
The humbler print fupplics their place.
Behind the house my garden lies,
And opens to the fouthern fkies:
The diftant hills gay profpects yield,
And plenty fmiles in ev'ry field.

The faithful inaftiff is my guard:
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their foft plumes improve my bed.
My cow rewards me all the can
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man);
She, daily thankful to her lord,
Crowns with nectareous fweets my board:
Am I difeas'd? the cure is known,
Her fweeter juices mend my own.

I love my houfe, and seldom roam;
Few vifits pleafe me more than home:
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but felf;
By idle paffions borne away
To opera, mafquerade, or play;
Fond of thofe hives where Folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains;
Where the pert virgin flights a name,
And fcorns to redden into shame.
But know, my fair, to whom belong
The poet and his artless fong,
When female cheeks refufe to glow,
Farewel to virtue here below!
Our fex is loft to ev'ry rule;
Our fole diftinction, knave or fool.

'Tis to your innocence we run;
Save us, ye fair, or we 're undone;
Maintain your inodefty and station,
So women thall preferve the nation.
Mothers, 'tis faid, in days of old,
Efteem'd their girls more choice than gold;
Too well a daughter's worth they knew,
To make her cheap by public view:
Few, who their diamonds' value weigh,
Expofe thofe diamonds ev'ry day.
Then, if Sir Plume drew near, and finil'd,
The parent trembled for her child :
The firft advance alarm'd her breast;
And fancy pictur'd all the rest.
But now no mother fears a foe;
No daughter fhudders at a beau.

Pleasure is all the reigning theme;
Our noon-day thought, our midnight dream.
In folly's chace our youths engage,
And fhameless crowds of tott'ring age.
The die, the dance, th'intemp'rate bowl,
With various charms engrofs the foul.
Are gold, fame, health, the terms of vice?
The frantic tribes fhall pay the price.
But tho' to ruin poft they run,
They'll think it hard to be undone.

Do not arraign my want of taste,
Or fight, to ken where joys are plac'd.
They widely err who think me blind;
And I difclaim a ftoic's mind.

Like yours are my fenfations quite;
I only ftrive to feel aright.

My joys, like ftreams, glide gently by;
Tho' Imall their channel, never dry;
Keep a ftill, even, fruitful wave,
And blefs the neighb'ring meads they lave,

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My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small Yet ev'ry friend partakes my ftore, And want goes fimiling from my door, Will forty fhillings warm the breaft Of worth or industry distress'dThis fum I cheerfully impart, 'Tis fourfcore pleasures to my heart; And you may make, by means like thefe, Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 'Tis true, my little purfe grows light; But then I fleep fo fweet at night! This grand fpecific will prevail When all the doctor's opiates fail.

You afk what party I purfue;
Perhaps you mean, Whose fool are you?'
The names of party I deteft;
Badges of flavery at beft:

I've too much grace to play the knave,
And too much pride to turn a flave.

I love my country from my foul,
And grieve when knaves or fools controul
I'm pleas'd when vice and folly smart,
Or at the gibbet or the cart:
Yet always pity where I can;
Abhor the guilt, but mourn the man.

Now the religion of your poetDoes not this little preface show it?

My

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§ 112. Vision I. Slander. Infcribed to Mifs****. My lovely girl, I write for you,

And pray believe my Vifions true;
They'll form your mind to ev'ry grace,
They'll add new beauties to your face;
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the fpoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen;
'Tis labour loft to talk to men:
Youth may perhaps reform when wrong;
Age will not liften to my fong.
He who at fifty is a fool,

Is far too stubborn grown for fchool.
What is that vice which ftill prevails,
When almoft ev'ry paffion fails;
Which with our very dawn begun,
Nor ends but with our fetting fun;
Which, like a noxious weed, can fpoil
The fairest flow'rs, and choak the foil?
'Tis Slander-and, with fhame I own,
The vice of human kind alone.

Be Slander, then, my leading dream,
Tho' you're a stranger to the theme;
Thy fofter breaft, and honeft heart,
Scorn the defamatory art;
Thy foul afferts her native skies,
Nor afks detraction's wings to rife:
In foreign fpoils let others fine,
Intrinfic excellence is thine.

The bird in peacocks plumes who shone
Could plead no merit of her own;
The filly theft betray'd her pride,
And fpoke her poverty befide.

Th'infidious fland'ring thief is worse
Than the poor rogue who fteals your purse.
Say, he purloins your glitt'ring ftore:
Who takes your gold, takes trash-no more;
Perhaps he pilfers to be fed-

Ah, guiltless wretch who steals for bread!
But the dark villain who fhall aim
To blaft my fair, thy spotless name,
He'd fteal a precious gem away,
Steal what both Indies can't repay!
Here the strong pleas of want are vain,
Or the more impious pleas of gain.
No finking, family to fave!

No gold to glut th' infatiate knave!
Improve the hint of Shakspeare's tongue;
Twas thus immortal Shakspeare fung*;
And trust the bard's unerring rule,
For nature was that Poet's fchool.

As I was nodding in my chair,

I faw a rueful wild appear:

• Othello.

No verdure met my aching fight,
But hemlock and cold aconite;
Two very pois'nous plants, 'tis true,
But not fo bad as vice to you.

The dreary profpect spread around!
Decp fnow had whiten'd all the ground:
A bleak and barren mountain nigh,
Expos'd to ev'ry friendlefs fky!
Here foul-mouth'd Slander lay reclin'd,
Her fnaky treffes hifs'd behind;

A bloated toad-stool rais'd her head,
The plumes of ravens were her bed +;"
She fed upon the viper's blood,
And flak'd her impious thirst with blood.
The rifing fun, and weitern ray,
Were witness to her diftant fway.
The tyrant claim'd a mightier hoft
Than the proud Perfian e'er could boaft.
No conqueft grac'd Darius' fon ‡,
By his own numbers half undone:
Succefs attended Slander's pow'r;
She reap'd fresh laurels ev'ry hour.
Her troops a deeper fcarlet wore
Than ever armies knew before.

No plea diverts the fury's rage,
The fury fpares nor fex nor age.
E'en Merit, with deftructive charms,
Provokes the vengeance of her arms.

Whene'er the tyrant founds to war,
Her canker'd trump is heard afar.
Pride, with a heart unknown to yield,
Commands in chief, and guides the field;
He stalks with vaft gigantic ftride,

And scatters fear and ruin wide:
So the impetuous torrents fweep
At once whole nations to the deep.
Revenge, that bafe Hefperian §, known
A chief fupport of Slander's throne,
Amidft the bloody crowd is feen,
And treach'ry brooding in his mien;
The monster often chang'd his gait,
But march'd refolv'd and fix'd as fate.
Thus the fell kite, whom hunger ftings,
Now flowly moves his out-stretch'd wings;
Now fwift as lightning bears away,
And darts upon his trembling prey.

Envy commands a facred band,
With fword and poifon in her hand.
Around her haggard eye-balls roll;
A thousand fiends poffefs her foul.
The artful unfufpected fprite
With fatal aim attacks by night.
Her troops advance with filent tread,
And ftab the hero in his bed;
Or fhoot the wing'd malignant lye,
And female honours pine and die.
So prowling wolves, when darkness reigns,
Intent on murder, fcour the plains;

+ Garth's Difpenfatory.

Xerxes, king of Perfia, and fon of Darius. He invaded Greece with an army confifting of more than a million of men (fome fay more than two millions); who, together with their cattle, perished in great measure through the inability of the countries to fupply fuch a vast hoft with provifion.

Helperia includes Italy as well as Spain; and the inhabitants of both are remarkable for their revengeful difpofitions.

Approach

Approach the folds where lambs repose,
Whofe guileless breafts fufpect no foes;
The favage gluts his fierce defires,
And bleating innocence expires.

Slander fmil'd horribly to view
How wide her conquefts daily grew:
Around the crowded levees wait,
Like oriental flaves of ftate;
Of either fex whole armies prefs'd,
But chiefly of the fair and beft.

Is it a breach of friendship's law,
To fay what female friends I faw?
Slander affumes the idol's part,
And claims the tribute of the heart;
The beft, in fome unguarded hour,

Have bow'd the knee, and own'd her pow'r.
Then let the poet not reveal
What candour wishes to conceal.

If I beheld fome faulty fair,
Much worfe delinquents crowded there:
Prelates in facred lawn I faw,
Grave phyfic, and loquacious law;
Courtiers, like fummer flies, abound;
And hungry poets fwarm around.
But now my partial story ends,
And makes my females full amends.

If Albion's ifle fuch dreams futils,
'Tis Albion's ifle which cures thefe ills:
Fertile of ev'ry worth and grace
Which warm the heart and flush the face.
Fancy difclos'd a fmiling train
Of British nymphs that tripp'd the plain.
Good-nature firft, a fylvan queen,
Attir'd in robes of cheerful green;
A fair and fmiling virgin the!
With ev'ry charm that fhines in thee.
Prudence affum'd the chief command,
And bore a mirror in her hand;
Grey was the matron's head by age,
Her mind by long experience fage;
Of ev'ry diftant ill afraid,
And anxious for the fimp'ring maid.
The Graces danc'd before the fair;
And white-rob'd Innocence was there.
The trees with golden fruits were crown'd,
And rifing flow'rs adorn'd the ground;
The fun difplay'd each brighter ray,
And fhone in all the pride of day:

When Slander ficken'd at the fight, And skulk'd away to fhun the light.

§ 114. Vifion II. Pleasure. HEAR, ye fair mothers of our ifle,

Nor fcorn your Poet's homely style.
What tho' my thoughts be quaint or new,
I'll warrant that my doctrine's true :
Or, if my fentiments be old,
Remember truth is fterling gold.

You judge it of important weight,
To keep your rifing offspring ftraight;
For this fuch anxious moments feel,
And ak the friendly aids of fteel;

For this import the diftant cane,

Or flay the monarch of the main.
And thall the foul be warp'd afide
By paffion, prejudice, and pride?
Deformity of heart I call
The worit deformity of all.
Your cares to body are confin'd;
Few fear obliquity of mind.
Why not adorn the better part?
This is a nobler theme for art.
For what is form, or what is face,
But the foul's index, or its cafe?
Now take a fimile at hand,
Compare the mental foil to land.
Shall fields be till'd with annual care,
And minds lie fallow ev'ry year?
Oh, fince the crop depends on you,
Give them the culture which is due:
Hoe ev'ry weed, and dress the foil,
So harveft fhall repay your toil.

If human minds refemble trees
(As ev'ry moralift agrees)
Prune all the ftragglers of your vine,
Then fhall the purple clafters fhine.
The gard'ner knows that fruitful life
Demands his falutary knife:

For ev'ry wild luxuriant shoot

Or robs the bloom, or ftarves the fruit.
A fatirift in Roman times,

When Rome, like Britain, groan'd with crimes,
Afferts it for a facred truth,

That pleafures are the bane of youth;
That forrows fuch pursuits attend,
Or fuch pursuits in forrows end :
That all the wild advent'rer gains,
Are perils, penitence, and pains.
Approve, ye fair, the Roman page,
And bid your fons revere the fage;
In ftudy fpend their midnight oil,
And firing their nerves by manly toil.
Thus fhall they grow, like Temple, wife;
Thus future Lockes and Newtons rife;
Or hardy chiefs to wield the lance,
And fave us from the chains of France.
Yes, bid your fons betimes forego

Thofe treach'rous paths where pleasures grow
Where the young mind is Folly's flave;
Where ev'ry virtue finds a grave.

Let each bright character be nam'd,
For wifdom or for valour fam'd.
Are the dear youths to fcience prone?
Tell how th' immortal Bacon fhone!
Who, leaving meaner joys to kings,
Soar'd high on contemplation's wings;
Rang'd the fair fields of nature o'er
Where never inortal trod before:
Bacon! whofe vaft, capacious plan
Bespoke him angel more than man!

Does love of martial fame infpire ?
Cherish, ye fair, the gen'rous fire;
Teach them to fpurn inglorious rest,
And roufe the hero in their breast:

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