in our popular anthologies, the reader may be glad to have an opportunity of seeing it in extenso.
If Heaven the grateful liberty would give
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious fate should lend
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend ;
Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great:
Better if on a rising ground it stood;
On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, necessary, plain :
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by ;
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or sycamores should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study placed
Should be with all the noblest authors graced ;
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit and solid learning shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passions knew:
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel;
His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well:
With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteemed for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as Fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise;
For sure no minutes bring us more content
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.
I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly but not great.
As much as I could moderately spend ;
A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of Poverty repine
Too much at Fortune; they should taste of mine ;
And all that objects of true pity were
Should be relieved with what my wants could spare ;
For that our Maker has too largely given
Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread,
With healthy, not luxurious dishes fed:
Enough to satisfy, and something more,
To feed the stranger and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.
I'd have a little vault, but always stored
With the best wines each vintage could afford.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse;
By making all our spirits debonair,
Throws off the lees, the sediment of care.
But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends
May be debauched, and serve ignoble ends;
So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice
Does many mischievous effects produce.
My house should no such rude disorders know,
As from high drinking consequently flow;
Nor would I use what was so kindly given
To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven.
If any neighbour came, he should be free,
Used with respect, and not uneasy be
In my retreat, or to himself or me.
What freedom, prudence, and right reason give,
All men may with impunity receive;
But the least swerving from their rule's too much; For what's forbidden us 'tis death to touch.
That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refined, sincere, and great;
I'd choose two friends, whose company would be
A great advance to my felicity:
Well-born, of humours suited to my own,
Discreet, that men as well as books have known:
Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free
From loose behaviour, or formality.
Airy and prudent, merry but not light;
Quick in discerning and in judging right:
Secret they should be, faithful to their trust;
In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just;
Obliging, open, without huffing brave;
Brisk in gay talking, and in sober grave:
Close in dispute, but not tenacious; tried
By solid reason, and let that decide :
Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate;
Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state:
Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite,
Not quarrelsome, but stout enought to fight;
Loyal and pious, friends to Cæsar; true
As dying martyrs to their Maker too.
In their society I could not miss
A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss.
Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose
(For who would so much satisfaction lose
As witty nymphs in conversation give?)
Near some obliging, modest fair to live :
For there's that sweetness in a female mind
Which in a man's we cannot hope to find;
That, by a secret but a powerful art,
Winds up the spring of life, and does impart
Fresh vital heat to the transported heart.
I'd have her reason all her passion sway,
Easy in company, in private gay:
Coy to a fop, to the deserving free;
Still constant to herself, and just to me.
A soul she should have for great actions fit;
Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit:
Courage to look bold danger in the face;
No fear but only to be proud or base;
Quick to advise, by an emergence prest,
To give good counsel, or to take the best.
I'd have the expression of her thoughts be such
She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much :
That shows a want of judgment and of sense:
More than enough is but impertinence.
Her conduct regular, her mirth refined,
Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind:
Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride,
In all the methods of deceit untried:
So faithful to her friend and good to all,
No censure might upon her actions fall.
Then would ev'n Envy be compelled to say,
She goes the least of womankind astray.
To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire;
Her conversation would new joys inspire,
Give life an edge so keen, no surly care
Would venture to assault my soul, or dare
Near my retreat to hide one secret snare:
But so divine, so noble a repast
I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste:
For highest cordials all their virtue lose
By a too frequent and too bold a use;
And what would cheer the spirits in distress
Ruins our health when taken to excess.
I'd be concerned in no litigious jar;
Beloved by all, not vainly popular.
Whate'er assistance I had power to bring,
T'oblige my country, or to serve my King,
Whene'er they call, I'd readily afford,
My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword.
Lawsuits I'd shun, with as much studious care
As I would dens where hungry lions are ;
And rather put up injuries, than be
A plague to him who'd be a plague to me.
I value quiet at a price too great
To give for my revenge so dear a rate:
For what do we by all our bustle gain,
But counterfeit delight for real pain?
If Heaven a date of many years would give,
Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live.
And as I near approached the verge of life,
Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care,
Whilst I did for a better state prepare.
Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed,
Nor have the evening of my days perplexed;
But, by a silent and a peaceful death,
Without a sigh, resign my aged breath.
And, when committed to the dust, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropt into my grave:
Then would my exit so propitious be,
All men would wish to live and die like me.
John Pomfret, the author of this charming poem, was the son of Thomas Pomfret, Vicar of Luton, in which place John was born in 1667. He was educated first at Bedford, and afterwards at Queens' College, Cambridge, where he graduated B.A. in 1684 and M.A. in 1698. He was among the numerous poets who wrote odes on Queen Mary's death in 1694, and in 1699 he published a volume of poems, in the preface to which he modestly said that he should judge from the reception of the book whether it was worth printing or not. It was probably received with some favour, but The Choice was not included in it, and was issued separately in 1700. Pomfret, who had been appointed to the Rectory of Malden in Bedfordshire in 1695, perhaps in reward for his loyal celebration of the late Queen's virtues, might fairly have hoped that the fame of The Choice would have brought him further preferment. It is evident, however, from what he says in his poem, that he had not realised the truth of Hamlet's
warning to Ophelia: "Be thou as chaste as ice and as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." It is said that representations were made in his behalf to Compton, Bishop of London, but that the latter was scandalised by the reference in The Choice to the "fair creature" and the resolution to have "no wife"; so that, though in this respect the poet had already changed his mind and was married, he was never moved from Malden, where he died and was buried, 1st December 1702.
Nothing could have been more innocent than Pomfret's poem. When it first appeared it was without the author's name, and announced itself to be the work of "A Person of Quality." And indeed it might have proceeded from any quarter in the ranks of intellectual society, for, as Johnson says, it exhibited "a system of life adapted to common notions, and equal to expectations, such a state as affords plenty and tranquillity, without exclusion of intellectual pleasures." To no society that ever existed would an ideal like this have offered more attractions than to the England of the early eighteenth century. Sixty years of civil war, or factious conflict, had distracted the mind of the nation, and, like the country-loving Romans after the battle of Actium, all classes welcomed the prospect of settled government. Only a few years before the publication of The Choice, moderate men had felt their duty divided between allegiance to their Sovereign and attachment to their National Church;
Loyal and pious, friends to Cæsar; true
As dying martyrs to their Maker too.
With Falkland many had sighed for "Peace"; with
Cowley others dreamed of a retirement that should
Horace might envy in his Sabine field;
men such as "humble Allen," "the Man of Ross," and a multitude who "did good by stealth and blushed to find it fame," longed for a state of quiet in which they might
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