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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,

255 Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?"

260 Who taught the 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 almshouse, neat, but void of state, 265 Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest, The young who labor,' and the old who rest. Is any sick? The man of Róss 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! enabled to pursue 275 What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do! Oh! say what sums that gen'rous hand supply ? What mines so swell that boundless charity ?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children, clear, This Man possess'd-five hundred pounds a-year,



Blush, Grandeur, blush ! proud Courts ! withdraw your blaze;

281 Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays. B. And what? nọ monument, inscription,

stone ? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,

283 Will never mark the marble with his name. Go, search 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. 290 When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living say'd a candle's end ; Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might Own,

295 Ęternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! And, see 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, 300 On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty, red,

Great Villiers lies--alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! 306
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love ;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Of mimic statesmen, md their merry king. 310
No wit to flatter, left of all his store !
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more:
There, victor of his bealth, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!

His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, 315
And well (he thought) advis'd him, · Live like me.'
As well his Grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John?
" That I can do, when all I have is gone!”
Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse ? 320
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd;
Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'a ?
Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,
For very wánt: he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's pow'r, 323

very want: he could not pay a dow'r. A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd; 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end, Banish'd the doctor, and expell’d the friend ? 330 What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had ! Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim, • Virtue ! and Wealth! what are you but a name?'

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Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd ?
Or are they both in this their own reward ? 336
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the

Like a tall bully lifts the head, and lies, 340
Therę dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth,
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords, 345
An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's ;
Constant at Church, and Change; his gains were

His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good job of old ;
But Satan now is wiser than of yore, 351
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rouz’d by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds

The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, 355
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes.
Live like yourself, was soon my lady's word ;
And lo! two puddings smoak’d upon the board.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, 361 An honest factor stole a gem away; He pledg'd it to the Knight, the Knight had wit, So kept the di'mond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd bis thought, • I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; • Where once I went to church I'll now go twice, * And am so clear too of all other vice;'

The Tempter saw his time, the work he ply'd; Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side, 370 Till all the dæmon makes his full descent In one abundant show'r of cent per cent. Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.

Behold, Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, 375 Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn; His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life) 381 But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the devil ordaind) one Christmas-tide My good old lady catch'd a cold and dy’d.

A nymph of quality admires our Knight; 385 He marries, bows at court, and grows polite ; Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: First for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390

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