Remarks that gall fo many to the few
My partners in retreat. Difguft conceal'd
Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obftinate, and cure beyond our reach.
"Domestic happiness, thou only blifs
Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Though few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preferve thy sweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy cryftal cup.
Thou art the nurse of virtue-in thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n-born, and deftin'd to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with a zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, ftill leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle frail fupport;
For thou art meek and conftant, hating change,
And finding, in the calm of truth-tried love,
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!
Till proftitution elbows us afide
In all our crowded streets; and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire less
Than to release th' adultrefs from her bond.
Th' adultrefs! what a theme for angry verfe!
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain
The nauseous talk to paint her as she is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame!
No:-let her pafs, and, chariotted along
In guilty splendour, shake the public ways;
(The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white!
And verfe of mine fhall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now, of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not afham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounc'd
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's fake,
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif, Defirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was an wholesome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care
That purity, whofe lofs was loss of all.
Men, too, were nice in honour in those days,
And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd,
And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious.
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid, with the blood that he had bafely fpar'd,
The price of his default. But now-yes, now
We are become fo candid and so fair,
So lib'ral in conftruction, and fo rich
In Chriftian charity, (good-natur'd age!)
That they are fafe, finners of either sex,
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd, well
bred,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To pafs us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill-that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause;
But he has burnt her mask, not needed here,
Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts
And fpecious femblances have lost their use.
I was a ftricken deer, that left the herd
Long fince; with many an arrow deep infixt,
My panting fide was charg'd, when I withdrew
To feek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his fide he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force foliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.
Since then, with few affociates, in remote
And filent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few affociates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I fee that all are wand'rers, gone aftray
Each in his own delufions; they are loft
In chase of fancied happiness, ftill woo'd
And never won.
Dream after dream enfues;
And ftill they dream that they shall still fucceed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain ftir. I fum up half mankind,
And add two thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As if created only like the fly,
That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon,
To sport their season, and be feen no more.
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,
And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the rant
An hiftory: describe the man, of whom
His own coevals took but little note;
And paint his perfon, character, and views,
As they had known him from his mother's womb.
They difentangle from the puzzled skein,
In which obfcurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and fhrewd design,
That ran through all his purposes, and charge
His mind with meanings that he never had,
Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore
The folid earth, and from the ftrata there
Extract a register, by which we learn,
That he who made it, and reveal'd its date
To Mofes, was mistaken in its age.
Some, more acute, and more induftrious ftill,
Contrive creation; travel nature up
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