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And meditates, as warmly glows his blood,
How best he might promote his country's good!
He can be happy though his neighbours thrive,
Nor thinks himself the poorest man alive.

But few are like Emilius, few can feel

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For aught, save their own sordid selves, a zeal.

Trebatius like a man of honour deals;
He only keeps your purse, he never steals:
His honour is so clear, you must not doubt it;
"He talks about it, Goddess, and about it.”
Wearied with mystery, and sick of prate,
Yet unconvinced, you trust the man you hate.

Simplicity is like a flowery wreath,
Though beautiful, a serpent lurks beneath!
Good Simon Pure in look, in voice a child,
Will circumvent a Jew-though very mild.

Burke says ambition is too bold a vice
For many; true: not so with avarice :—
The meanest passion has the strongest hold
On human hearts-the cursed lust of gold!
You judge (if rightly read in Nature's book)
Of beasts, by what in men deceives-the look:
The fox's craft, the slyness of a cat,

Are outwardly express'd by this and that.
Crispus with studied negligence will speak,

Yet knows right well his neighbour's side that's weak;

And while his words are out at random thrown,
Notes yours upon his memory's tablet down.

The most experienced oft will fail to trace
The lines of cunning in his ruddy face:
Yet, watch it narrowly, you see the smile
Betrays what laughter may conceal—his guile.

Lives there the man who does not condescend
To notice, if he be distress'd, a friend?
Such man within the Town perchance may dwell,
(More fit to be a denizen of Hell,)

But in the Country may not show his face;
Our lands are cursed not with so vile a race.

Experience, sole correctress of the young Who to reeds shaken by the wind have clungFalse hopes, false friends, false pleasures--'tis by thee, Our souls are arm'd against duplicity!

Give him one year, the youth by passion fired;
May lose whate'er his father has acquired!
Whate'er he gain'd by forethought, or by toil,
May in one night become the sharper's spoil.

Why does Eugenio love to live by rule?
He aims to be the first in Jackson's school;
Yet like himself, perchance, Eugenio's sire
Liked a beefsteak that just had seen the fire!

'Twas love of exercise-'tis love of fame

Their ends were varied, but their means the same.

Sick of amusements that come o'er and o'er,
The chase, the dance, the drama, and the moor,
Hilario quits fair England: restless still,
He follows pleasure's shade, and ever will;
Till to some "high-viced" city drawing close,
It leaves him idle, but without repose.

Hilario stakes his goods, among the rest
A ring—it was a dying friend's bequest !
This dear memorial of a dying friend
Adorns a strumpet's finger in the end.

Lucilius courts the great; he'd rather be
Their slave, than live among his equals free:
Yet will he notice these, whene'er they meet
Elsewhere, than in a fashionable street.

Yet some there are who scorn-how very odd!
This lordling's humble servant's friendly nod.

Vain, demi-deified by flattering self,


Claudius cries" All women want my pelf!" Some, dazzled with exterior show, adore

The golden calf, like wayward Jews of yore.
Yet is the fool so fine-he dares to scorn

The highly-gifted, beautiful, high-born,

Till from his fancied eminence he's hurl'd
By lawless love-a by-word in the world!
Or to a wanton, or another's wife

Wedded, for ever with his spouse at strife.

Extreme in every thing, Petronius pants
To be a chosen one, and humbly cants!
What, are humility and cant allied?
Humility is virtue, cant is pride!

The words of dying Addison, "Be good,"
Though easy, are by few well understood.

Florus, whose wit may grace to-morrow's feast,
Is low to-day; the wind is in the east—
Or deems he that at thirty though he sing
A jest, a jester's but a trifling thing?

The mind "that's sicklied o'er with the pale cast
Of thought," intensely ponders o'er the past!
Each act, however fair in youth's gay prime,
Changes its hues; and darkens into crime:
Each lighter jest, in strong remembrance set,
Adds something to the stores of vain regret.

E'en Atticus, whose mind is blest with taste,
Lets, when alone, his talents run to waste.
The standard of his taste is high indeed;
Few are the books he condescends to read;

He bears with Dryden's prose, or Campbell's verse.
Such delicate feeling surely is a curse.

What is thy boasted knowledge, man of thought?
What are thy fancy's meteor flashes ?-nought,-
If but a passing cloud that glooms the sky
Can stupify thy brain, or dull thine eye:
Slave to the breeze, the sunshine, and the shower,
Thou art in sooth a transitory flower!

There's Heaven in mere existence; then again
If clouds be lowering, fortune smiles in vain :
The dull cold morn, which doubtful lights illume,
Casts o'er the mind its harmonizing gloom.

"Poor human Nature!" bending over Pope,
His friend exclaim'd-but where was St. John's hope?
He saw the poet ghastly, weak, and thin,
But saw not the immortal soul within!
The soul, that like an eagle soars among

The bright existences, those souls of song

That, with intuitive glance, at once see through
Worlds, which on earth they vainly strove to view.

On the rough ocean of existence tost,
Here contemplation is in action lost.

Had we but time to speculate, how strange
Would all appear within the mind's wide range;

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