And tills their minds with proper care,

And fees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,

His own lies fallow all the while.

"Yet ftill he's in the road, you fay, "Of learning.”—Why, perhaps, he may. But turns like horses in a mill,

Nor getting on, nor standing still :
For little way his learning reaches,

Who reads no more than what he teaches.

"Yet you can send advent'rous youth, "In fearch of letters, tafte, and truth, "Who ride the highway road to knowlege "Through the plain turnpikes of a college." True. — Like way-pofts, we serve to shew The road which travellers fhou'd go;

Who jog along in easy pace,

Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,

The Poft, and its direction still:

Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,
To many a passenger befide.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's felf to eat. Tho', be it always understood,

Our appetites are full as good.

"But there have been, and proofs appear, "Who bore this load from year to year; "Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit, "The world has ne'er difputed yet. "Whether the flowing mirth prevail "In Wesley's fong or humorous tale; "Or happier Bourne's expreffion please "With graceful turns of claffic cafe ; "Or Oxford's well-read poet fings "Pathetic to the ear of kings: “These have indulg'd the mufe's flight, "Nor loft their time or credit by't; "Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey

"On the due bufinefs of the day.

"Verse

"Verse was to them a recreation "Us'd but by way of relaxation."

Your inftances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage fpread
Its greeneft honours round their head,
Bleft, if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,-I admit, you tax me right. Prudence, 'tis true, was out of fight, And you may whisper all you meet, The man was vague and indifcreet. Yet tell me, while you cenfure me, you from error found and free?

Are

Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind afide?

All have their hobby-horse, you see, From Triftram down to you and me.

Ambition, splendour, may be thine;
Eafe, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,

And fet their hedges up before 'em,

Some sprouts will branch, and straggle o'er 'em.

Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,

And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools fhall cackle out reproof,
The very afs fhall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his poffeffion,
The fingle virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and feem wise.

?

PART

PART OF HOMER'S

HYMN TO APOLLO.

Translated from the Greek.

OD of the Bow! Apollo, thee I fing;

Go

Thee, as thou draw'ft amain the founding string,

Th' inmortal pow'rs revere with homage low,
And ev'ry godhead trembles at thy bow.
All but Latona: She with mighty Jove
Eyes thee with all a tender parent's love;
Clofes thy quiver, thy tough bow unbends,
And high amid th' æthereal dome suspends,
Then smiling leads thee, her all-glorious fon,
To share the mighty Thunderer's awful throne.
Goblets of nectar thy glad fire prepares,

And thee, his faireft, nobleft fon declares;
While ev'ry god fits rapt, Latona's breast

Beats with fuperior joy, and hails her son confest.