No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
The modest wants of ev'ry day
The toil of ev'ry day supplied.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round, 25 Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 30 His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain, 35 And freed his soul the nearest way.
(1696-1732?-1737)From The Spleen
An Epistle to Mr. C------ J-----1
THIS motly piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend:
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the publick weal, 5 Do, what I sing, so often feel.
The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour'd muse;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind. 10
The child is genuine; you can trace
Throughout, the sire's transmitted face.
Nothing is stol'n: my muse, tho' mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within;