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O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine! How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

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And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend,
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way,
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's
close

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He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood: at his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to

raise,

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And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

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way,

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With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar'd how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too,
Lands he could measure, terms and tides
presage,

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And even the story ran that he could gauge. 210
In arguing too the parson own'd his skill,
For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering
sound

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.216

But past is all his fame: the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing

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Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born
sway;

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd.

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But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 267 Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around;
Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied-276
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their
growth;

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His seat, where solitary spots are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, all 285
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,

When time advances, and when lovers fail,

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save,

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The country blooms-a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 305
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped-what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps
display,

There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;

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Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing

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And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a

tear,

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And every care resign;

And shall we never, never part,

My life my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too."

Philip Dormer Stanhope,
Lord Chesterfield 1
1694-1773

MANNERS MAKYTH MAN

(Letter LXXIV., from Letters to His Son, 1774)

Spa, 25th July, 1741.

Dear Boy-I have often told you in my former letters (and it is most certainly true) that the strictest and most scrupulous honour 5 and virtue can alone make you esteemed and valued by mankind; that parts and learning can alone make you admired and celebrated by them; but that the possession of lesser talents was most absolutely necessary towards 10 making you liked, beloved, and sought after in private life. Of these lesser talents good breeding is the principal and most necessary one, not only as it is very important in itself, A well known wit, politician, orator, and "finegentleman," in the age of Pope and of Johnson. He was a typical product of early 18th century England, in which essential coarseness and materialism were too often covered with a superficial veneer of polish and refinement. His early repulse of Dr. Johnson, and belated offer of patronage occasioned Johnson's famous letter of rebuke, which is given on p. 385. His Letters, which were not written for publication but intended to serve as a practical guide to his son in conduct and manners, reflect with a terrible truthfulness the views and standards of their author.

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