Nor be the milk white streams forgot
Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;
Rise, incense pure from fragrant tea,
Delicious incense, worthy thee!

Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair,
Thou bliss of life, and balm of care!
Still may thy gentle reign extend,

And Taste with Wit and Science blend.
Soft polisher of rugged man!
Refiner of the social plan!

For thee, best solace of his toil!

The sage consumes his midnight oil!
And keeps late vigils, to produce
Materials for thy future use.
Calls forth the else neglected knowledge,
Of school, of travel, and of college.
If none behold, ah! wherefore fair?
Ah wherefore wise, if none must hear?
Our intellectual ore must shine,
Not slumber, idly, in the mine.
Let Education's moral mint
The noblest images imprint;

Let Taste her curious touchstone hold,
To try if standard be the gold;
But 'tis thy commerce Conversation,
Must give it use by circulation;
That noblest commerce of mankind,
Whose precious merchandise is MIND!
What stoic traveller would try
A sterile soil, and parching sky,
Or bear th' intemp'rate northern zone,
If what he saw must ne'er be known?
For this he bids his home farewell;
The joy of seeing is to tell.

Trust me, he never would have stirr'd,
Were he forbid to speak a word;
And Curiosity would sleep,
If her own secrets she must keep
The bliss of telling what is past
Becomes her rich reward at last.
Who mock'd at death, and danger smile,
To steal one peep at father Nile;
Who, at Palmyra risk his neck,
Or search the ruins of Balbeck;
If these must hide old Nilus' fount,
Nor Lybian tales at home recount;
If those must sink their learned labour,
Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour?
Range-study-think-do all we can,
Colloquial pleasures are for man.

Yet not from low desire to shine
Does Genius toil in Learning's mine;
Not to indulge in idle vision,

But strike new light by strong collision.
Of CONVERSATION, Wisdom's friend,
This is the object and the end,
Of moral truth man's proper science,
With sense and learning in alliance,
To search the depths, and thence produce
What tends to practice and to use.
And next in value we shall find

What mends the taste and forms the mind;
If high those truths in estimation,
Whose search is crown'd with demonstration;
To these assign no scanty praise,

Our taste which clears, our views which raise.
For grant the mathematic truth

Best balances the mind of youth;

Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found
To grow from principles less sound.

O'er books the mind inactive lies, Books, the mind's food, not exercise! Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels, 'Till use the latent strength reveals; Her slumbering energies call'd forth, She rises, conscious of her worth; And, at her new-found powers elated, Thinks them not rous'd, but new created.

Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know
What charms from polish'd converse flow,
Speak, for you can, the pure delight
When kindling sympathies unite;
When correspondent tastes impart
Communion sweet from heart to heart;
You ne'cr the cold gradations need
Which vulgar souls to union lead;
No dry discussion to unfold

The meaning caught ere well 'tis told:
In taste, in learning, wit, or science,
Still kindled souls demand alliance:
Each in the other joys to find
The image answering to his mind.
But sparks electric only strike
On souls electrical alike;
The flash of intellect expires,
Unless it meet congenial fires:
The language to th' elect alone
Is, like the mason's mystery known
In vain th' unerring sign is made
To him who is not of the trade.
What lively pleasure to divine,
The thought implied, the hinted line,
To feel Allusion's artful force,
And trace the image to it's source!
Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays,
"Till Fancy kindles at the blaze;
The works of ages start to view,
And ancient Wit elicits new.

But wit and parts if thus we praise,
What noble altars should we raise,
Those sacrifices could we see
Which Wit, O Virtue! makes to thee:
At once the rising thought to dash,
To quench at once the bursting flash!
The shining Mischief to subdue,
And lose the praise, and pleasure too!
Tho' Venus' self, could you detect her,
Imbuing with her richest nectar,

The thought unchaste-to check that thought,
To spurn a fame so dearly bought;
This is high Principle's controul!
This is true continence of soul!
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,
A vanquish'd realm, a plunder'd town!
Your conquests were to gain a name,
This conquest triumphs over. fame;
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd
If known, and if commended, void.
Amidst the brightest truths believ'd
Amidst the fairest deeds achiev'd,
Shall stand recorded and admir'd,
That Virtue sunk what Wit inspir'd!

But let the letter'd and the fair,
And, chiefly, let the wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
O shun the perils which attend

On wit, on warmth, and heed your friends;
Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bowers,
Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers,

Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill,
Tho' Attic bees each word distil;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse;
If she withhold her magic spell,
Nor in the social circle dwell;

In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis ATTENTION:
Mute angel, yes; thy look dispense
The silence of intelligence;
Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn,
"Tis thou for talents shalt obtain

That pardon Wit would hope in vain;

Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm,
Shall Envy of her sting disarm;
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
Our jealous souls no longer burn,
Nor hate thee, tho' thou shine in turn;
The sweet atonement screens the fault,
And love and praise are cheaply bought.
With mild complacency to hear,
Tho' somewhat long the tale appear,―
The dull relation to attend,

Which mars the story you could mend;
"Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty.
Nor vainly think, the time you waste,
When temper triumphs over taste.

REFORMER, hold! ah, spare my shade,
Respect the hallow'd dead!"
Vain pray'r! I see the op'ning glade,
See utter darkness fled.
Just so your innovating hand

Let in the moral light;

So, chas'd from this bewilder'd land,
Fled intellectual night.

Where now that holy gloom which hid
Fair Truth from vulgar ken?
Where now that wisdom which forbid
To think that monks were men?
The tangled mazes of the schools,
Which spread so thick before;
Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools,
Shall catch mankind no more.
Those charming intricacies where?
Those venerable lies?

Those legends, once the church's care?
Those sweet perplexities?
Ah! fatal age, whose sons combin'd
Of credit to exhaust us:
Ah! fatal age, which gave mankind
A LUTHER and a FAUSTUS!*
Had only JACK and MARTINt liv'd,
Our pow'r had slowly fled;
Our influence longer had surviv'd
Had layman never read.

*The same age which brought heresy into the church, unhappily introduced printing among the arts, by which means the Scriptures were unluckily disseminated among the vulgar.

How bishop Bonner came to have read Swift's Tale of a Tub it may now be in vain to inquire.

For knowledge flew, like magic spell,
By typographic art;

Oh, shame! a peasant now can tell
If priests the truth impart.
Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds
Synods, decrees, and rules!
Ye warrants of unholy deeds,
Indulgences and bulls!

Where are ye now? and where, alas ?
The pardons we dispense!

And penances, the sponge of sins;

And Peter's holy pence?

Where now the beads that used to swell

Lean Virtue's spare amount?

Here only faith and goodness fill

A heretic's account.

But soft-what gracious form appears
Is this a convent's life!
Atrocious sight! by all my fears,
A prelate with a wife!
Ah! sainted MARY,* not for this
Our pious labour's join'd;
The witcheries of domestic bliss

Had shook ev'n GARDNER's mind,
Hence all the sinful, human ties,

Which mar the cloister's plan; Hence all the weak fond charities, Which makes man feel for man. But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks The projects we design'd;

* An orthodox queen of the sixteenth century, who laboured with might and main, conjointly with these two venerable bishops to extinguish a dangerous heresy ycleped the Reformation.

The idle, life's worst burthens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!

Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And tho' the bard, who would attain
The glories, MILTON, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts,
He may be like thee in thy faults!

Exhausted FLORIO, at the age,
When youth should rush on glory's stage;
When life should open fresh and knew,
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gaiety bereft,

Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left;
He found already to his cost,
The shining gloss of life was lost;
And Pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursu'd;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd,

He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
But FLORIO knew the world that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He thought the world to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the town;
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set-mankind.

Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd,
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd,
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION.
Tho' known among a certain set,
He did not like to be in debt;
He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox,

That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit as a sinner,
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late;
Yet, 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to forund a reputation;
Small habits well pursu'd betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes.
And who a juster claim preferr'd,
Than one who always broke his word!

His mornings were not spont in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice:
Walk up and down St. James's-street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet:
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigued than that decreed
To him who cannot think, or read.
Not all the peril of temptations,
Not all the conflict of the passions,
Can quench the spark of glory's flame,
Or quite extinguish virtue's name;
Like the true taste for genuine saunter,
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter.
The active fires that stir the breast,
Her poppies charm to fatal rest,
They rule in short and quick succession,
But SLOTH keeps one long, fast possession;

Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd,
Th' usurper rage is soon depos'd;
Intemperance, where there's no temptation,
Makes voluntary abdication;

Of other tyrants short the strife,
But INDOLENCE is king for life.
The despot twists with soft control,
Eternal fetters round the soul.

Yet tho' so polish'd FLORIO's breeding,
Think him not ignorant of reading;
For he to keep him from the vapours,
Subscrib'd at HOOKHAM's, saw the papers;
Was deep in poet's corner wit;
Knew what was in italics writ;
Explain'd fictitious names at will,
Each gutted syllable could fill;
There oft, in paragraphs, his name
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame;
Tho' yet they only serv'd to hint
That FLORIO lov'd to see in print,
His ample buckles' alter'd shape,
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape.
And many a standard phrase was his
Might rival bore, or banish quiz ;
The man who grasps this young renown,
And early starts for Fashion's crown;
In time that glorious prize may wield,
Which clubs, and ev'n Newmarket yield.
He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis,
He read compendiums, extracts, beauties,
Abreges, dictionaries, recueils,

Mercures, journaux, extracts, and feuilles ;
No work in substance now is follow'd,
The chemic extract only's swallow'd.
He lik'd those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of other's books;
And ruin half an author's graces,
By plucking bon-mots from their places;
He wonders any writing sells,
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells
His palate these alone can touch,
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche.
Some phrase, that with the public took,
Was all he read of any book;
For plan, detail, arrangement, system,
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em.
Of each new play he saw a part,
And all the anas had by heart;
He found whatever they produce
Is fit for conversation-use;
Learning so ready for display,
A page would prime him for a day;
They cram not with a mass of knowledge,
With smacks of toil, and smells of college,
Which in the memory useless lies,
Or only makes men-good and wise.
This might have merit once indeed,
But now for other ends we read.

A friend he had, BELLARIO hight,
A reasoning, reading, learned wight;
At least, with men of FLORIO's breeding,
He was a prodigy of reading.
He knew each stale and vapid lie
In tomes of French philosophy;
And then, we fairly may presume,
From PYRRHO down to DAVID HUME,
"Twere difficult to single out
A man more full of shallow doubt;
He knew the little sceptic prattle,
The sophist's paltry arts of battle;

Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance,
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;
Admir'd the system of LUCRETIUS,
Whose matchless verse makes nonsense

cious!

To this his doctrine owes its merits,
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits.
Tho' sceptics dull his scheme rehearse,
Who have not souls to taste his verse.
BELLARIO founds his reputation
On dry stale jokes, about creation;
Would prove, by argument circuitous,

The combination was fortuitous.
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive,
And prey on bigots who believe;
With bitter ridicule could jeer,
And had the true free-thinking sneer.
Grave arguments he had in store,
Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er;
And us'd, with wond'rous penetration
The trite, old trick of false citation;
From ancient authors fond to quote
A phrase or thought they never wrote.
Upon his highest shelf there stood
The classics neatly cut in wood;
And in a more commodious station,
You found them in a French translation:
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes,
But keeps the French-just for the notes.
He worshipp'd certain modern names
Who history write in epigrams,
In pointed periods, shining phrases,
And all the small poetic daisies,
Which crowd the pert and florid style,
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;
Where notes indecent or profane
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain:
Where all is spangle, glitter, show,
And truth is overlaid below:
Arts scorn'd by History's sober muse,
Arts CLARENDON disdain'd to use.
Whate'er the subject of debate,
"Twas larded still with sceptic prate;
Begin whatever theme you will,
In unbelief he lands you still;
The good, with shame I speak it, feel
Not half this proselyting zeal:
While cold their master's cause to own
Content to go to heaven alone;
The infidel in liberal trim,
Would carry all the world with him:
Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, nation,
Mankind-with what! Annihilation.

Tho' FLORIO did not quite believe him,

He thought, why should a friend deceive him?
Much as he priz'd BELLARIO's wit,
He liked not all his notions yet;
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd,
But hop'd one might believe in God;
Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue,
He knew not how to think him wrong.
Tho' FLORIO tried a thousand ways,
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze;
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt
If ever it go fairly out.

Yet, under great BELLARIO's care,
He gain'd each day a better air;
With many a leader of renown,
Deep in the learning of the town,
Who never other science knew,

And learn the classics from a dance:
In OVID they ne'er car'd a groat,
How far'd the vent'rous ARGONAUT;
Yet charm'd they see MEDEA rise
On fiery dragons to the skies.
For DIDO,* tho' they never knew her
AS MARO's magic pencil drew her,
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted,
Her pious vagabond departed;
Yet, for DIDONE how they roar
And Cara! Cara! loud encore.

One taste, BELLARIO's soul possess'd
The master passion of his breast;
It was not one of those frail joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys
This bliss was solid, constant, true,
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too
For tho' the business might be finish'd;
The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,
He liv'd it o'er again in talk;
Prolong'd the fugitive delight,
In words by day, in dreams by night,
'Twas eating did his soul allure,
A deep, keen, modish epicure;
Tho' once this name, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine;
Yet all our modern wits assure us,
That's all they know of EPICURUS:
They fondly fancy, that repletion
Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk Philosophy in bowers,
Or, in the covert of a wood,
To descant on the sovereign good,
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder;
Their bolder standards they erect,
To form a more substantial sect;

Old EPICURUS would not own 'em,
A dinner is their summum bonum.
More like you'll find such sparks as these,
To EPICURUS' deities;

Like them they mix not with affairs,
But loll and laugh at human cares.
To beaux this difference is allow'd,
They choose a sofa for a cloud;
BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee,
This practical philosophy.

Young FLORIO's father had a friend,
And ne'er did heaven a worthier send;
A cheerful knight of good estate,
Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great.
Where'er his wide protection spread,
The sick were cheer'd, the hungry fed;
Resentment vanish'd where he came;
And lawsuits fled before his name ;
The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him,
And all the smiling village bless'd him,
Within his castle's Gothic gate,

Sat Plenty, and old-fashioned state :
Scarce Prudence could his bounties stint;-
Such characters are out of print;

O! would kind heav'n, the age to mend,

* Medea and Dido were the two reigning operas at this time.