VI. A POET'S EPITAΡΗ. ART thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business trained and bred ? First learn to love one living man; Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou? - draw not nigh; Art thou a Man of purple cheer? Or art thou One of gallant pride, Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, - A Moralist perchance appears ; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew, The outward shows of sky and earth, In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart, The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak, both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave. VII. TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands, Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, |