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Who, wise yourselves, desire your son should learn
pale, Their breath a sample of last night's regale ; See volunteers in all the vilest arts
835 Man well endow'd, of honourable parts, Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools, All these, and more like these, were bred at schools, And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still ; 840 Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark : As here and there a twinkling star descried, Serves but to show how black is all beside. Now look on him, whose very voice in tone 845 Just echoos thine, whose features are thine own,
And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red,
Go thither, conscious that there lay
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command; 885
895 But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?) One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, Howe’or he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.
O barb'rous! wouldst thou with a Gothick hand Pull down the schools-what !--all th' schools i' th'
900 Or throw them up to liv'ry nags
grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction rooms ? A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) Deserves an answer similar or none. Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ, 905 (Appris'd that he is such,) a careless boy, And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ? Survey our schools and colleges, and see A sight not much unlike my simile.
910 From education, as the leading cause, The publick character its colour draws; Thence the prevailing manners take their cast, Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. And, though I would not advertise them yet, 915 Nor write on each- This building to be let, Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace A plan well worthy to supply their place; Yet, backward as they are, and long have been, To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
920 (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, Or better manag’d, or encourag'd loss.
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
THE swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
The wildest wind that blows,
The gloomy scene surveys !
Bids me and Mary mourn;
And whispers your return.
Then April with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Nor:
folk, the gift of my cousin Ann Bodham.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has passid With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I
see, The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, (Bless'd be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannick claim To quench it,) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of ono so dear,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears. I shed ? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss, Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I hoard the bell tollid on thy burial day, VOL. II.