And tills their minds with proper care, And fees them their due produce bear, 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 : 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, The Poft, and its direction still: Which stands an useful unthank'd guide, '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, 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, All have their hobby-horse, you see, From Triftram down to you and me. Ambition, splendour, may be thine; And fet their hedges up before 'em, Some sprouts will branch, and straggle o'er 'em. Strive, fight against her how you will, And though you curb with double rein, But let a man of parts be wrong, ? 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 thee, his faireft, nobleft fon declares; Beats with fuperior joy, and hails her son confest. |