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Thus always teasing others, always teased,
His only pleasure is-to be displeased.

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn, and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.

We sometimes think we could a speech produce
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose;
But being tried, it dies upon the lip

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,

Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
Few Frenchman of this evil have complain'd;
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd,
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,
To fear each other, fearing none beside.
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,
Self-searching with an introverted eye,
Conceal'd within an unsuspected part,
The vainest corner of our own vain heart:
For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;
In other eyes our talents rarely shewn,
Become at length so splendid in our own,
We dare not risk them into public view,
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear:

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produced and nursed.

The circle form'd, we sit in silent state,

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;

Yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am, uttered softly, shew Every five minutes how the minutes go;

Each individual, suffering a constraint

Poetry may,

but colours cannot paint;

As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;

And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection, and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conversators of the public health,

Of epidemic throats, if such there are,

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Fill'd up at last with interesting news,

Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed,
And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed:
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if 'twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstacy we come,
As from a seven years' transportation, home,
And there resume an unembarrass'd brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties, that seem'd reduced to nought,
Expression and the privilege of thought.

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase,
I give him over as a desperate case.
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure,
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure;
And though the fox he follows may be tamed,
A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd.
Some farrier should prescribe his proper course,
Whose only fit companion is his horse,

Or if, deserving of a better doom,

The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.

Yet even the rogue that serves him, though he stand,
To take his honour's orders, cap in hand,

Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good sense,
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence.
If neither horse nor groom affect the 'squire,
Where can at last his jockeyship retire?
O to the club, the scene of savage joys,
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise;
There, in the sweet society of those,

Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose,
Let him improve his talent if he can,

Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.
Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd

Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,

Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand

Given him a soul, and bade him understand;

The reasoning power vouchsafed of course inferr'd
The power to clothe that reason with his word;
For all is perfect, that God works on earth,
And he, that gives conception, aids the birth.
If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood,
What uses of his boon the giver would.
The Mind, dispatch'd upon her busy toil,

Should range where Providence has bless'd the soil;
Visiting every flower with labour meet,

And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet,
She should imbue the tongue with what she sips,
And shed the balmy blessing on the lips,

That good diffused may more abundant grow,
And speech may praise the power that bids it flow,
Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night,
That fills the listening lover with delight,
Forget his harmony, with rapture heard,
To learn the twittering of a meaner bird?
Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice,
That odious libel on a human voice?
No-Nature, unsophisticate by man,
Starts not aside from her Creator's plan;
The melody, that was at first design'd
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind,
Is note for note deliver'd in our ears,
In the last scene of her six thousand years.
Yet Fashion, leader of her chattering train,
Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign,
Who shifts and changes all things but his shape,
And would degrade her votary to an ape,
The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong,
Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue;

There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace,
Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace,
And when accomplish'd in her wayward school,
Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool.
'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree,

That none could frame or ratify but she,

That Heaven and Hell, and righteousness and sin,
Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within,

God and his attributes (a field of day
Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray),
Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,
Be never nam'd in ears esteem'd polite.

That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave,
Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave,
A close designer not to be believed,

Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived.
Oh, Folly, worthy of the nurse's lap,

Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap!
Is it incredible, or can it seem

A dream to any, except those that dream,
That man should love his Maker, and that fire,
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes,
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies ;
That air of insolence affronts your God,
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod :
Now in a posture that becomes you more
Than that heroic strut assumed before,
Know your arrears with every hour accrue
For mercy shewn, while wrath is justly due.
The time is short, and there are souls on Earth,
Though future pain may serve for present mirth,
Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame,
By Fashion taught, forbade them once to name,
And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest,
Have proved them truths too big to be express'd.
Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground,

Sure to succeed, the remedy they found;

Touch'd by that power that you have dared to mock,
That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock,
Your heart shall yield, a life-renewing stream,
That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream.
It happen'd on a solemn eventide,

Soon after He that was our surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all those sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as they went
In musings worthy of the great event:

They spake of him they loved, of him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife,

Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,

The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more ;
They thought him, and they justly thought him, one
Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done;
To exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wonder'd he should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend,
And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air,
What their affliction was, and begg'd a share.
Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well
The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, The night, they said, is near,
We must not now be parted, sojourn here—
The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
And, made so welcome at their simple feast,
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word,
And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord!
Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say,
Did they not burn within us by the way?

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves
Man to maintain, and such as God approves :
Their views indeed were indistinct and dim,
But yet successful, being aimed at him.
Christ and his character their only scope,
Their object, and their subject, and their hope,
They felt what it became them much to feel,
And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal,
Found him as prompt, as their desire was true,
To spread their newborn glories in their view.
Well-what are ages and the lapse of time
Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime ?
Can length of years on God himself exact?
Or make that fiction, which was once a fact?
No-marble and recording brass decay,
And like the graver's memory pass away;
The works of man inherit, as is just,
Their author's frailty, and return to dust:

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