Illusive of philosophy, so called,
But falsely. Sages after sages strove
In vain to filter off a crystal draught

Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced
The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred
Intoxication and delirium wild.

In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth

And spring-time of the world! asked, Whence is
Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is? [man?
Where must he find his Maker? with what rites
Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless?
Or does he sit regardless of his works?
Has man within him an immortal seed?
Or does the tomb take all? If he survive

His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?

Knots worthy of solution, which alone

A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague

And all at random, fabulous and dark,

Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak

To bind the roving appetite, and lead

Blind nature to a God not yet revealed.
"Tis revelation satisfies all doubts,
Explains all mysteries, except her own,
And so illuminates the path of life,
That fools discover it, and stray no more.
Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,

My man of morals, nurtured in the shades
Of Academus-is this false or true?

Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?
If Christ, then why resort at every turn
To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short
Of man's occasions, when in him reside
Grace, knowledge, comfort—an unfathomed store?
How oft, when Paul has served us with a text,
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached!

Men that, if now alive, would sit content
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth,

Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!
And thus it is.-The pastor, either vain

By nature, or by flattery made so, taught
To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt
Absurdly, not his office, but himself;

Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn;
Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;
Perverting often, by the stress of lewd
And loose example, whom he should instruct ;
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace,

The noblest function, and discredits much
The brightest truths, that man has ever seen.
For ghostly counsel; if it either fall
Below the exigence, or be not backed
With show of love, at least with hopeful proof

Of some sincerity on the giver's part;
Or be dishonoured in the exterior form
And mode of its conveyance by such tricks,
As move derision, or by foppish airs
And histrionic mummery, that let down
The pulpit to the level of the stage;
Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.
The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught,
While prejudice in men of stronger minds
Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see...
A relaxation of religion's hold

Upon the roving and untutored heart

Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapt,
The laity run wild.-But do they now?
Note their extravagance, and be convinced.
As nations, ignorant of God, contrive
A wooden one; so we, no longer taught
By monitors, that mother church supplies,
Now make our own. Posterity will ask
(If ever posterity see verse of mine)
Some fifty or an hundred lustrums hence,
What was a monitor in George's days?
My very gentle reader, yet unborn,

Of whom I needs must augur better things,
Since heaven would sure grow weary of a world
Productive only of a race like our's,

A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.

We wear it at our backs.

There, closely braced

And neatly fitted, it compresses hard

The prominent and most unsightly bones,

And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use
Sovereign and most effectual to secure

A form, not now gymnastic as of yore,
From rickets and distortion, else our lot.
But, thus admonished, we can walk erect-
One proof at least of manhood! while the friend
Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.
Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,
And by caprice as multiplied as his,
Just please us while the fashion is at full,
But change with every moon. The sycophant,
Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date;
Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;
made, another obsolete,

Finds one

This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived;

And, making prize of all that he condemns,
With our expenditure defrays his own.
Variety's the very spice of life,

That gives it all its flavour. We have run
Through every change, that fancy at the loom
Exhausted has had genius to supply;

And, studious of mutation still, discard
A real elegance, a little used,

For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys

And comforts cease.

Dress drains our cellar dry

And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires;

And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,

Where peace and hospitality might reign.'

What man that lives, and that knows how to live,
Would fail to exhibit at the public shows

A form as splendid as the proudest there,
Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?
A man of the town dines late, but soon enough,
With reasonable forecast and dispatch,

To insure a side box station at half price.
You think perhaps so delicate his dress,
His daily fare as delicate. Alas!

He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems
With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet!
The rout is folly's circle, which she draws
With magic wand. So potent is the spell,
That none, decoyed into that fatal ring,
Unless by heaven's peculiar grace, escape.
There we grow early gray, but never wisę;
There form connexions, but acquire no friend ;
Solicit pleasure hopeless of success;

Waste youth in occupations only fit

For second childhood, and devote old age
To sports, which only childhood could excuse.
There they are happiest, who dissemble best