Old Cotta fham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What though (the use of barbarous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with crefles fter'd,
With foups unbought and fallads blefs'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?
Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmoakless towers furvey,
And turn th' unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the foreft o'er,
Curfe the fav'd candle, and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not fo his Son he mark'd this overfight,
And then mistook reverfe of wrong for right.
(For what to fhun, will no great knowledge need
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praife,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raife.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine !
Yet no mean motives this profufion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;
'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Żeal 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 Country leaves him to her Laws.
The Senfe to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitioufly purfued,
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 fhall fhift 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 fcarce by Virtue hit,
By G-'s goodnefs, 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 eafe, 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 just 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 Gamester, Pimp, or Player? Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part, To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart? Where'er he fhines, 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? Rise, honest Muse! and fing the MAN of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
After ver. 250. in the MS.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's fhore,
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 artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose feats the weary Traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"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, 265
Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
fick? the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the Courts, and conteft 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 fay, 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? 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 thoufand lights attend
The wretch, who living sav'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 stone.
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 plaister, 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.
Just as he ought, he fill'd the Space between;
Then stole to rest unheeded and unfeen.
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