TO A FRIEND.

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian,

And many another noble Grecian,

Who wealth and palaces resigned,

In cots the joys of peace to find;

Maximian's meal of turnip-tops

( Disgusting food to dainty chops )

I've also read of, without wonder;

But such a cursed egregious blunder,

As that a man of wit and sense

Should leave his books to hoard up pence,—

Forsake the loved Aonian maids

For all the petty tricks of trades,

I never, either now, or long since,

Have heard of such a peace of nonsense;

That one who learning's joys hath felt,

And at the Muse's altar knelt,

Should leave a life of sacred leisure

To taste the accumulating pleasure;

And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,

Grovel in loads of kindred muck.

Oh!‘ t is beyond my comprehension!

A courtier throwing up his pension,—

A lawyer working without a fee,—

A parson giving charity,—

A truly pious methodist preacher,—

Are not, egad, so out of nature.

Had nature made thee half a fool,

But given thee wit to keep a school,

I had not stared at thy backsliding:

But when thy wit I can confide in,

When well I know thy just pretence

To solid and exalted sense;

When well I know that on thy head

Philosophy her lights hath shed,

I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to,

I wonder what this world will come to!

Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine

That thou alone dost singly shine?

Shall I lament that thou alone,

Of men of parts, hast prudence known?