Miscellanies in Prose and Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

While you laborious Antony employ
Your honest pains t'increase your Master's joy,
Your easy Master, who of all mankind
To make you happy seems by heav'n design'd,
While tonsile Eughs obey your forming hand,
And twining Woodbines climb at your command,
Why cannot I the mental garden till
With equal happiness or equal skill?
Teach the tough brambles of my heart to yield,
And smooth my temper as you smooth my field!

But stay; neglect awhile your fav'rite flow'r,
And deign with me to waste one idle hour;
What think you when with hasty steps you run
To rear yon Myrtles to the rising sun

With kindly drops revive the with'ring roots
And guard from vernal blasts the future fruits;
Or when at eve you tread the tedious round
And drag the roller up the rising ground,
If your incautious steps the gloom pervade,
Where your mad Master haunts the silent glade,
And with erratick gait, and kindling eyes,
Now stamps the ground, now gazes on the skies.
You stare affrighted at his furious fits,
And fear his bursting lungs or failing wits!

Perhaps you think by learning's rage possest,
The sev'n bold Champions glory fires his breast;
Nor recollect, though told it in the town,
That your old Master, now a Courtier grown,
The glories of a greater King recites
Than famous Arthur, and his fabled Knights.
If high Namur beneath his batt'ry falls,
Well may the thunder shake our feeble walls.

But were you told what project new and vain
Has lately rag'd in my distemper'd brain,
That I, who cities in my song o'erthrew,
Now rack my head for rhymes to write to you,
How high would honest indignation swell?
I know your thoughts, and what I know will tell.

My Master's wit, thus Antony would cry,
The world has long admir'd as well as I;
With words at will, equip him with a gown,
He'd talk a Lawyer and a Parson down;
But were he forc'd like Antony to toil,
To clip the hedges, and to turn the soil,
This wild parterre to smooth with daily care,
The borders regulate, the beds repair,
Our Linnets might in peace possess their loves
And no strange noises fright them from their groves.—

'Tis by such instances we daily find
How false appearances deceive mankind.

With partial sentence Antony you deem,
My hours spent idly, idle though they seem;
Behold my wand'ring steps with frown severe,
And think yourself the only lab'rer here.
How would you change your notions and your style,
Could you forsake the gard'ner's trade awhile,
Made by some power in some malicious fit
For two long days an Authour and a Wit,
And doom'd to spend in mending verse or prose,
Days without mirth, and nights without repose.
When studious to secure the Critic's praise
By rustic images, but polish'd phrase,
The garden's flow'ry beauties you rehearse,
And spread their colours through your varied verse;
With each low shrub your lofty song adorn,
And with her clust'ring blossoms heap the thorn.
From such fatigues returning lean and pale,
Burnt as with heat, and batter'd as with hail,
How would you wish the water-pot and rake,
In your hard fingers once again to take,

To train the ductile branches as you please,
And lop the wild luxuriance from my trees,
Nor more expose your health in nightly dews
To watch the motions of th'unwilling Muse;
Henceforth content the beaten track to tread,
Nor craze with unaccording rhymes your head.

Now from this Idler you so long despis'd,
Attentive learn how labour should be priz'd;
Learn first that Man an active life demands,
Learn next that heav'n requires it at his hands.

These fix'd, unalterable laws to shun,
Poets in vain to their retirement run,
Vainly the Syren Sisters spread their snares,
Vainly this bow'r her pendant sweets prepares.
Here strong expression dwells of race divine,
And soft Cæsura, fav'rite of the Nine,
Here Rhyme, fantastic maid, with fetters plays,
And promises her vot'ry easy praise,

In vain: While care and toil her groves invade
And the Bard pants beneath the laurel's shade.

Yet tho' in hopes and fears his life be spent,
His pride, at least his pride, affords content;
With joy his growing volume he surveys,
And distant eyes the sweet return of praise.
How diff'rent with the weight of time opprest
Th'impatient sluggard vainly prays for rest,
And leaning listless in his elbow chair,
Inviting indolence, but feeding care,
Unknown to labour, and to science dead,
Rests on his weary hands his useless head.
With curses raging at the tardy day,
The worthless, hopeless mortal pines away.
How oft by sense impell'd, by pain persued,
Sick of mankind, more sick of solitude,
He calls for pleasure.—But, he calls in vain,
Gout, stone and cholic, all the dreadful train

His steps attend, nor far behind appear
Pale Med'cine's gloomy sons scarce less severe.
Now learns the wretch, to misery consign'd,
That he who shuns fatigue, fatigue shall find;
Doom'd on his down each change of toil to feel,
Dig the damp mine, or forge the burning steel.

Thou then, good Antony, whose humble part,
This man of pleasure envies in his heart,
Awhile attend my song, and learn of me
To plead the cause of virtuous poverty.
Here on my fav'rite subject let me dwell,
Each period strengthen, and each cadence swell;
Prove that all happiness in action lies,
The rich, luxurious loiterer despise,
And term the busy Poor the only wise:
With warmth the usefulness of labour prove,
And sing the praises of the life I love.

But hold! I see your mouth wide open drawn,
And inattention lengthening ev'ry yawn,
Your eylids drop, good hint for my discourse,
That if not quickly dropt will lose its force.
Those thirsty flow'rets too your care demand
And wonder what new holiday's at hand.