The art of preserving health: a poem.

THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH.

BOOK I. AIR. DAUGHTER of Paeon, queen of every joy, HYGEIAHygeia, the goddeſs of health, was, according to the genealogy of the Heathen Deities, the daughter of Eſculapius; who, as well as Apollo, was diſtinguiſhed by the name of Paeon. whoſe indulgent ſmile ſuſtains The various race luxuriant nature pours, And on th' immortal eſſences beſtows Immortal Youth; auſpicious, O deſcend! Thou, chearful guardian of the rolling year, Whether thou wanton'ſt on the weſtern gale, Or ſhak'ſt the rigid pinions of the north, Diffuſeſt life and vigour thro' the tracts, Of air, thro' earth, and ocean's deep domain. When thro' the blue ſerenity of heav'n Thy power approaches, all the waſteful hoſt Of pain and ſickneſs, ſqualid and deform'd, Confounded ſink into the loathſom gloom, Where in deep Erebus involv'd the fiends Grow more profane. Whatever ſhapes of death Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe, Swarm thro' the ſhuddering air: whatever plagues Or meagre famine breeds, or with ſlow wings Riſe from the putrid wat'ry element, The damp waſte foreſt, motionleſs and rank, That ſmothers earth, and all the breathleſs winds, Or the vi •• carnage of th' inhuman field; Whatever baneful breathes the rotten ſouth; Whatever ills th' extremes or ſudden change Of cold and hot, or moiſt and dry produce; They fly thy pure effulgence: they, and all The ſecret poiſons of avenging heaven, And all the pale tribes halting in the train Of vice and heedleſs pleaſure: or if aught The comet's glare amid the burning ſky, Mournful eclipſe, or planets ill combin'd, Portend diſaſtrous to the vital world; Thy ſalutary power averts their rage, Averts the general bane: and but for thee Nature would ſicken, nature ſoon would die. WITHOUT thy chearful, active energy, No rapture ſwells the breaſt, no poet ſings, No more the maids of Helicon delight. Come then with me, O Goddeſs heavenly gay! Begin the ſong; and let it ſweetly flow, And let it wiſely teach thy wholeſom laws: " How beſt the fickle fabric to ſupport " Of mortal man; in healthful body how " A healthful mind the longeſt to maintain." 'Tis hard, in ſuch a ſtrife of rules, to chuſe The beſt, and thoſe of moſt extenſive uſe; Harder in clear and animated ſong, Dry philoſophic precepts to convey. Yet with thy aid the ſecret wilds I trace Of nature, and with daring ſteps proceed Thro' paths the muſes never trod before. NOR ſhould I wander doubtful of my way, Had I the lights of that ſagacious mind Which taught to check the peſtilential fire, And quell the dreaded Python of the Nile. O Thou belov'd by all the graceful arts, Thou long the fav'rite of the healing powers, Indulge, O MEAD! a well-deſign'd eſſay, Howe'er imperfect, and permit that I My little knowledge with my country ſhare, Till you the rich Aſ • lepian ſtores unlock, And with new graces dignify the theme. YE who amid this feveriſh world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind; Fly the rank city, ſhun its turbid air; Breathe not the chaos of eternal ſmoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, ſick'ning, and the living world Exhal'd, to ſully heaven's tranſparent dome With dim mortality. It is not air That from a thouſand lungs reeks back to thine, Sated with exhalations rank and f • ll, The ſpoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw Of nature; when from ſhape and texture ſhe Relapſes into fighting elements: It is not air, but floats a nauſeous maſs Of all obſcene, corrupt, offenſive things. Much moiſture hurts; but here a ſordid bath With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more The ſolid frame than ſimple moiſture can. Beſides, immur'd in many a ſullen bay That never felt the freſhneſs of the breeze, This ſlumbring deep remains, and ranker grows With ſickly reſt: and (tho' the lungs abhor To drink the dun fuliginous abyſs) Did not the acid vigour of the mine, Roll'd from ſo many thundring chimneys, tame The putrid ſalts that overſwarm the ſky; This cauſtick venom would perhaps corrode Thoſe tender cells that draw the vital air, In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd; Or by the drunken, venous tubes, that yawn In countleſs pores o'er all the pervious ſkin, Imbib'd, would poiſon the balſamic blood, And rouſe the heart to every fever's rage. While yet you breathe, away! the rural wilds Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales, The woods, the ſtreams, and each ambroſial breeze That fans the ever undulating ſky; A kindly ſky! whoſe foſt'ring power regales Man, beaſt, and all the vegetable reign. Find then ſome woodland ſcene, where nature ſmiles Benign, where all her honeſt children thrive. To us there wants not many a happy ſeat; Look round the ſmiling land, ſuch numbers riſe We hardly fix, bewilder'd in our choice. See where enthron'd in adamantine ſtate, Proud of her bards, imperial Windſor ſits; There chuſe thy ſeat, in ſome aſpiring grove, Faſt by the ſlowly winding Thames; or where Broader ſhe laves fair Richmond's green retreats, (Richmond that ſees an hundred villas riſe, Rural or gay) O! from the ſummer's rage, O! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides Umbrageous Ham! But if the buſy town Attract thee ſtill to toil for power or gold, Sweetly thou may'ſt thy vacant hours poſſeſs In Hampſtead, courted by the weſtern wind; Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood; O • loſe the world amid the ſylvan wilds Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unſpoil'd. Green riſe the Kentiſh Hills in chearful air▪ But on the marſhy plains that Eſſex ſpreads Build not, nor reſt too long thy wandering feet. For on a ruſtic throne of dewy turf, With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, Quartana there preſides; a meagre fiend, Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force Compreſs'd the ſlothful Naiad of the fens. From ſuch a mixture ſprung this fitful peſt, With feveriſh blaſts ſubdues the ſick'ning land: Cold Tremors come, and mighty love of reſt, Convulſive yawnings, laſſitude, and pains, That ſting the burden'd brows, fatigue the loins, And rack the joints, and every torpid limb; Then parching heat ſucceeds, till copious ſweats O'erflow; a ſhort relief from former ills. Beneath repeated ſhocks the wretches pine; The vigour ſinks, the habit melts away; The chearful, pure and animated bloom, Dies from the face, with ſqualid atrophy Devour'd, in ſallow melancholy clad. And oft the ſorcereſs, in her ſated wrath, Reſigns them to the furies of her train; The bloated Hydrops, and the yellow fiend Ting'd with her own accumulated gall. IN queſt of ſites, avoid the mournful plain Where oſiers thrive, and trees that love the lake▪ Where many lazy muddy rivers flow: Nor for the wealth that all the Indies roll, Fix near the marſhy margin of the main. For from the humid ſoil, and wat'ry reign, Eternal vapours riſe; the ſpungy air For ever weeps; or, turgid with the weight Of waters, pours a ſounding deluge down. Skies ſuch as theſe let every mortal ſhun Who dreads the dropſy, palſy, or the gout, Tertian, corroſive ſcurvy, or moſt catarrh▪ Or any other injury that grows From raw-ſpun fibres, idle and unſtrung. Skin ill perſpiring, and the purple flood In languid eddies loitering into phlegm. YET not alone from humid ſkies we pine; For air may be too dry. The ſubtle heaven That winnows into duſt the blaſted downs, Bare, and extended wide, without a ſtream, Too faſt imbibes th' attenuated lymph, Which, by the ſurface, from the blood exhales. The lungs grow rigid, and with toil eſſay Their flexible vibrations; or inflam'd, Their tender ever-moving ſtructure thaws. Spoil'd of its limpid vehicle, the blood A maſs of lees remains, a droſſy tide That ſlow as Lethe wanders thro' the veins, Unactive in the ſervices of life, Unfit to lead its pitchy current thro' The ſecret mazy channels of the brain. The melancholic fiend (that worſt deſpair Of phyſic) hence the ruſt-complexion'd man Purſues, whoſe blood is dry, whoſe fibres gain Too ſtretch'd a tone: and hence in climes aduſt So ſudden tumults ſeize the trembling nerves, And burning fevers glow with double rage. FLY, if you can, theſe violent extremes Of air; the wholeſome is nor moiſt nor dry. But as the power of chuſing is deny'd To half mankind, a further taſk enſues; How beſt to mitigate theſe fell extreams, How breathe unhurt the withering element, Or hazy atmoſphere: tho' cuſtom moulds To every clime the ſoft Promethean clay; And he who firſt the fogs of Eſſex breath'd (So kind is native air) may in the fens Of Eſſex from inveterate ills revive At pure Montpelier or Bermuda caught: But if the raw and oozy heaven offend, Correct the ſoil, and dry the ſources up Of wat'ry exhalation; wide and deep Conduct your Trenches thro' the ſpouting Bog; Solicitous, with all your winding arts, Betray th' unwilling lake into the ſtream; And weed the foreſt, and invoke the winds To break the toils where ſtrangled vapours lie; Or thro' the thickets ſend the crackling flames. Mean time, at home with chearful fires diſpel The humid air: and let your table ſmoke With ſolid roaſt or bak'd; or what the herds Of tamer breed ſupply; or what the wilds Yield to the toilſome pleaſures of the chace. Generous your wine, the boaſt of rip'ning years, But frugal be your cups; the languid frame, Vapid and ſunk from yeſterday's debauch, Shrinks from the cold embrace of wat'ry heavens. But neither theſe, nor all Apollo's arts, Diſarm the dangers of the dropping ſky, Unleſs with exerciſe and manly toil You brace your nerves, and ſpur the lagging blood. The fat'ning clime let all the ſons of eaſe Avoid; if indolence would wiſh to live. Go, yawn and loiter out the long ſlow year In fairer ſkies. If droughty regions parch The ſkin and lungs, and bake the thick'ning blood; Deep in the waving foreſt chuſe your ſeat, Where fuming trees refreſh the thirſty air; And wake the fountains from their ſecret beds, And into lakes dilate the running ſtream. Here ſpread your gardens wide; and let the cool, The moiſt relaxing vegetable ſtore Prevail in each repaſt: your food ſupplied By bleeding life, be gently waſted down, By ſoft decoction, and a mellowing heat, To liquid balm, or, if the ſolid maſs You chuſe, tormented in the boiling wave; That thro' the thirſty channels of the blood A ſmooth diluted chyle may ever flow. The fragrant dairy from its cool receſs Its nectar acid or benign will pour To drown your thirſt: or let the mantling bowl Of keen ſherbet the ſickle taſte relieve. For with the viſcous blood the ſimple ſtream Will hardly mingle, and fermented cups Oft diſſipate more moiſture than they give. Yet when pale ſeaſons riſe, or winter rolls His horrors o'er the world, thou mayſt indulge In feaſts more genial, and impatient broach The mellow caſk. Then too the ſcourging air Provokes to keener toils than ſultry droughts Allow. But rarely we ſuch ſkies blaſpheme. Steep'd in continual rains, or with raw fogs Bedew'd, our ſeaſons droop; incumbent ſtill A ponderous heaven o'erwhelms the ſinking ſoul. Lab'ring with ſtorms in heapy mountains riſe Th' imbattled clouds, as if the Stygian ſhades Had left the dungeon of eternal night, Till black with thunder all the ſouth deſcends. Scarce in a ſhowerleſs day the heavens indulge Our melting clime, except the baleful eaſt Withers the tender ſpring, and ſourly checks The fancy of the year. Our fathers talk Of ſummers, balmy airs, and ſkies ſerene. Good heaven! for what unexpiated crimes This diſmal change! The brooding elements Do they, your powerful miniſters of wrath, Prepare ſome fierce exterminating plague? Or is it fix'd in the decrees above That lofty Albion melt into the main? Indulgent nature! O diſſolve this gloom! Bind in eternal adamant the winds That drown or wither: give the genial weſt To breathe, and in its turn the ſprightly north And may once more the circling ſeaſons rule The year; not mix in every monſtrous day. MEAN time, the moiſt malignity to ſhun Of burthen'd ſkies; mark where the dry champain Swells into chearful hills; where Marjoram And Thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air; And where theThe wild roſe, or that which grows upon the wild briar. Cynorrhodon with the roſe For fragrance vies; for in the thirſty ſoil Moſt fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes. There bid thy roofs high on the baſking ſteep Aſcend, there light thy hoſpitable fires. And let them ſee the winter morn ariſe, The ſummer evening bluſhing in the weſt, While with umbrageous oaks the ridge behind O'erhung, defends you from the bluſt'ring north, And bleak affliction of the peeviſh eaſt. O! when the growling winds contend, and all The • ounding foreſt fluctuates in the ſtorm, To ſink in warm repoſe, and hear the din Howl o'er the ſteady battlements, delights Above the luxury of vulgar ſleep. The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarſer ſtrain Of waters ruſhing o'er the ſlippery rocks, Will nightly lull you to ambroſial reſt. To pleaſe the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is ſtudied, for whatever moves The mind with calm delight, promotes the juſt And natural movements of th' harmonious frame. Beſides, the ſportive brook for ever ſhakes The trembling air; that floats from hill to hill, From vale to mountain, with inceſſant change Of pureſt element, refreſhing ſtill Your airy ſeat, and uninfected goods. Chiefly for this I praiſe the man who builds High on the breezy ridge, whoſe lofty ſides Th' etherial deep with endleſs billows laves. His purer manſion nor contagious years Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy. BUT may no fogs, from lake, or fenny plain, Involve my hill. And whereſoe'er you build, Whether on ſun-burnt Epſom, or the plains Waſh'd by the ſilent Lee; in Chelſea low, Or high Blackheath with wint'ry winds aſſail'd; Dry be your houſe: but airy more than warm. Elſe every breath of ruder wind will ſtrike Your tender body thro' with rapid pains; Fierce coughs will teize you, hoarſeneſs bind your voice, Or moiſt Gravedo load your aching brows: Theſe to defy, and all the fates that dwell In cloiſter'd air, tainted with ſteaming life, Let lofty cielings grace your ample rooms; And ſtill at azure noontide may your dome At every window drink the liquid ſky. NEED we the funny ſituation here, And theatres open to the ſouth, commend? Here, where the morning's miſty breath infeſts More than the torrid noon? How ſickly grow, How pale, the plants in thoſe ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor never hope To feel the genial vigour of the ſun! While on the neighbouring hill the roſe inflames The verdant ſpring; in virgin beauty blows The tender lily, languiſhingly ſweet; O'er every hedge the wanton woodbine roves, And autumn ripens in the ſummer's ray. Nor leſs the warmer living tribes demand The foſt'ring ſun: whoſe energy divine Dwells not in mortal fire, whoſe generous heat Glows thro' the maſs of groſſer elements, And kindles into life the pond'rous ſpheres. Chear'd by thy kind invigorating warmth, We court thy beams, great majeſty of day! If not the ſoul, the regent of this world, Firſt-born of heaven, and only leſs than God!

THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK II. DIET. THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK II. DIET. ENOUGH of air. A deſart ſubject now, Rougher and wilder, riſes to my ſight. A barren waſte, where not a garland grows To bind the muſe's brow; not even a proud Stupendous ſolitude frowns o'er the heath, To rouſe a noble horror in the ſoul: But rugged paths fatigue, and error leads Thro' endleſs labyrinths the devious feet. Farewel, etherial Fields! the humbler arts Of life; the table and the homely Gods, Demand my ſong. Elyſian gales adieu! THE blood, the fountain whence the ſpirits flow, The generous ſtream that waters every part, And motion, vigour, and warm life conveys To every particle that moves or lives; This vital fluid, thro' unnumber'd tubes Pour'd by the heart, and to the heart again Refunded; ſcourg'd for ever round and round, Enrag'd with heat and toil, at laſt forgets Its balmy nature; virulent and thin It grows; and now, but that a thouſand gates Are open to its flight, it would deſtroy The parts it cheriſh'd and repair'd before. Beſides, the flexible and tender tubes Melt in the mildeſt, moſt nectareous tide That ripening nature rolls; as in the ſtream Its crumbling banks; but what the vital force Of plaſtic fluids hourly batters down, That very force, thoſe plaſtic particles Rebuild: ſo mutable the ſtate of man. For this the watchful appetite was giv'n, Daily with freſh materials to repair This unavoidable expence of life, This neceſſary waſte of fleſh and blood. Hence the concoctive powers, with various art, Subdue the cruder aliments to chyle; The chyle to blood; the foamy purple tide To liquors, which thro' finer arteries To different parts their winding courſe purſue; To try new Changes, and new forms put on, Or for the public, or ſome private uſe. NOTHING ſo foreign but th' athletic hind Can labour into blood. The hungry meal Alone he fears, or aliments too thin, By violent powers too eaſily ſubdu'd, Too ſoon expell'd. His daily labour thaws, To friendly chyle, the moſt rebellious maſs That ſalt can harden, or the ſmoke of years; Nor does his gorge the rancid bacon rue, Nor that which Ceſtria ſends, tenacious paſte Of ſolid milk. But ye of ſofter clay Infirm and delicate! and ye who waſte With pale and bloated ſloth the tedious day! Avoid the ſtubborn aliment, avoid The full repaſt; and let ſagacious age Grow wiſer, leſſon'd by the dropping teeth. HALF ſubtiliz'd to chyle, the liquid food Readieſt obeys th' aſſimilating powers; And ſoon the tender vegetable ma •• Relents; and ſoon the young of thoſe that tread The ſtedfaſt earth, or cleave the green abyſs, Or pathleſs ſky. And if the Steer muſt fall, In youth and vigour glorious let him die; Nor ſtay till rigid age, or heavy ails, Abſolve him ill-requited from the yoke. Some with high forage, and luxuriant eaſe, Indulge the veteran Ox; but wiſer thou, From the bleak mountain or the barren downs, Expect the flocks by frugal nature fed; A race of purer blood, with exerciſe Refin'd and ſcanty fare: For, old or young, The ſtall'd are never healthy; nor the cramm'd. Not all the culinary arts can tame, To wholſome food, th' abominable growth Of reſt and gluttony; the prudent taſte Rejects like bane ſuch loathſome luſciouſneſs. The languid ſtomach curſes even the pure Delicious fat, and all the race of oil; For more the oily aliments relax Its feeble tone; and with the eager lymph (Fond to incorporate with all it meets) Coily they mix; and ſhun with ſlippery wiles The woo'd embrace. Th' irreſoluble oil, So gentle, late and blandiſhing, in floods Of rancid bilc o'erflows: what tumults hence, What horrors riſe, were nauſeous to relate. Chuſe leaner viands, ye of jovial make! Chuſe ſober meals; and rouſe to active life Your cumbrous clay; nor on th' enfeebling down, Irreſolute, protract the morning hours. But let the man, whoſe bones are thinly clad, With chearful eaſe, and ſucculent repaſt, Improve his ſlender habit. Each extreme From the bleſt mean of ſanity departs. I COULD relate what table this demands, Or that complexion; what the various powers Of various foods: but fifty years would roll, And fifty more, before the tale were done. Beſides, there often lurks ſome nameleſs, ſtrange, Peculiar thing; nor on the ſkin diſplay'd, Felt in the pulſe, nor in the habit ſeen; Which finds a poiſon in the food that moſt The temp'rature affects. There are, whoſe blood Impetuous rages thro' the turgid veins, Who better bear the fiery fruits of Ind, Than the moiſt Melon, or pale Cucumber. Of chilly nature others fly the board Supply'd with ſlaughter, and the vernal pow'rs For cooler, kinder ſuſtenance, implore. Some even the generous nutriment deteſt, Which, in the ſhell, the ſleeping Embryo • ears▪ Some, more unhappy ſtill, repent the gifts Of Pales; ſoft, delicious and benign: The balmy quinteſcence of every flower, And every grateful herb that decks the ſpring, The foſt'ring dew of tender ſprouting life; The beſt refection of declining age; The kind reſtorative of thoſe who lie Half-dead and panting, from the doubtful ſtrife Of nature ſtruggling in the graſp of death. Try all the bounties of this fertile globe, There is not ſuch a ſalutary food, As ſuits with every ſtomach. But (except, Amid the mingled maſs of fiſh and fowl, And boil'd and bak'd, you heſitate by which You ſunk oppreſs'd, or whether not by all▪) Taught by experience ſoon you may diſcern What pleaſes, what offends. Avoid the cates That lull the ſicken'd appetite too long; Or heave with feveriſh fluſhings all the face, Burn in the palms, and parch the rough'ning tongue▪ Or much diminiſh, or too much increaſe Th' expence which nature's wiſe oeconomy, Without or waſte or avarice maintains. Such cates abjur'd, let prouling hunger looſe, And bid the curious palate roam at will; They ſcarce can err amid the various ſtores That burſt the teeming entrails of the world. LED by ſagacious taſte, the ruthleſs king Of beaſts on blood and ſlaughter only lives: The tyger, form'd alike to cruel meals, Would at the manger ſtarve: of milder ſeeds, The generous horſe to herbage and to grain • ▪ Confines his wiſh; tho' fabling Greece reſound The Thracian ſteeds with human carnage wild. Prompted by inſtinct's never-erring power, Each creature known its proper aliment; But man, th' inhabitant of every clime, With all the commoners of nature feeds. Directed, bounded, by this pow'r within, Their cravings are well-aim'd: voluptous man Is by ſuperior faculties miſled; Miſled from pleaſure even in queſt of joy. Sated with nature's boons, what thouſands ſeek, With diſhes tortur'd from their native taſte, And mad variety to ſpur beyond Its wiſer will the jaded appetite! Is this for pleaſure? Learn a juſter taſte; And know, that temperance is true luxury. Or is it pride? Purſue ſome nobler aim. Diſmiſs your paraſites, who praiſe for hire; And earn the fair eſteem of honeſt men, Whoſe praiſe is fame. Form'd of ſuch clay as yours, The ſick, the needy, ſhiver at your gates. Even modeſt want may bleſs your hand unſeen, Tho' huſh'd in patient wretchedneſs at home. Is there no virgin, grac'd with every charm But that which binds the mercenary vow? No youth of genius, whoſe neglected bloom Unfoſter'd ſickens in the barren ſhade? No worthy man, by fortune's random blows▪ Or by a heart too generous and humane, Conſtrain'd to leave his happy natal ſeat, And ſigh for wants more bitter than his own? There are, while human miſeries abound, A thouſand ways to waſte ſuperfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of ſickneſs of diſguſt. BUT other ills th' ambiguous feaſt purſue, Beſides provoking the laſcivious taſte. Such various foods, tho' harmleſs each alone, Each other violate; and oft we ſee What ſtrife is brew'd, and what pernicious bane, From combinations of innoxious things. Th' unbounded taſte I mean not to confine To hermit's diet, needleſly ſevere. But would you long the ſweets of health enjoy, Or huſband pleaſure, at one impious meal Exhauſt not half the bounties of the year, And of each realm. It matters not mean while How much to morrow differ from to day; So far indulge: 'tis fit, beſides, that man, To change obnoxious, be to change inur'd. But ſtay the curious appetite, and taſte With caution fruits you never tried before: For want of uſe the kindeſt aliment Sometimes offends; while cuſtom tames the rage Of poiſon to mild amity with life. So heav'n has form'd us to the general taſte Of all its gifts; ſo cuſtom has improv'd This bent of nature; that few ſimple foods, Of all that earth, or air, or ocean yield, But by exceſs offend. Beyond the ſenſe Of light refection, at the genial board Indulge not often; nor protract the feaſt To dull ſatiety; till ſoft and ſlow▪ A drowzy death creeps on, th' expanſive ſoul Oppreſs'd, and ſmother'd the celeſtial fire. The ſtomach, urg'd beyond its active tone, Hardly to nutrimental chyle ſubdues The ſofteſt food: unfiniſh'd and deprav'd, The chyle, in all its future wand'rings, owns Its turbid fountain; not by purer ſtreams So to be clear'd, but foulneſs will remain. To ſparkling wine what ferment can exalt Th' unripen'd grape? Or what mechanic ſkill From the crude ore can ſpin the ductile gold? Groſs riot treaſures up a wealthy fund Of plagues: but more immedicable ills Attend the lean extreme. For phyſic knows How to diſburden the too tumid veins, Even how to ripen the half-labour'd blood; But to unlock the elemental tubes, Collaps'd and ſhrunk with long inanity, And with balſamic nutriment repair The dried and worn-out habit, were to bid Old age grow green, and wear a ſecond ſpring; Or the tall aſh, long raviſh'd from the ſoil, Thro' wither'd veins imbibe the vernal dew. When hunger calls, obey; nor often wait Till hunger ſharpen to corroſive pain: For the keen appetite will feaſt beyond What nature well can bear; and one extreme Ne'er without danger meets its own reverſe. Too greedily th' exhauſted veins abſorb The recent chyle, and load enfeebled powers Oft to th' extinction of the vital flame. To the pale cities, by the firm-ſet ſiege And famine humbled, may this verſe be borne; And hear, ye hardieſt ſons that Albion breeds, Long toſs'd and famiſh'd on the wint'ry main; The war ſhook off, or hoſpitable ſhore Attain'd, with temperance bear the ſhock of joy; Nor crown with feſtive rites th' auſpicious day: Such feaſt might prove more fatal than the waves, Than war, or famine. While the vital fire Burns feebly, heap not the green fuel on; But prudently foment the wandering ſpark With what the ſooneſt feels its kindred touch: Be frugal ev'n of that: a little give At firſt; that kindled, add a little more; Till, by deliberate nouriſhing, the flame Reviv'd, with all its wonted vigour glows. BUT tho' the two (the full and the jejune) Extremes have each their vice; it much avails Ever with gentle tide to ebb and flow From this to that: ſo nature learns to bear Whatever chance or headlong appetite May bring. Beſides, a meagre day ſubdues The cruder clods by ſloth or luxury Collected; and unloads the wheels of life. Sometimes a coy averſion to the feaſt Comes on, while yet no blacker omen lours; Then is a time to ſhun the tempting board. Were it your natal or your nuptial day. Perhaps a faſt ſo ſeaſonable ſtarves The latent ſeeds of woe, which rooted once Might coſt you labour. But the day return'd Of feſtal luxury, the wiſe indulge Moſt in the tender vegetable breed: Then chiefly when the ſummer's beams inflame The brazen heavens; or angry Syrius ſheds A feveriſh taint thro' the ſtill gulph of air. The moiſt cool viands then, and flowing cup From the freſh dairy-virgin's liberal hand, Will ſave your head from harm, tho' round the world The dreadedThe burning fever. Cauſos roll his waſteful fires. Pale humid Winter loves the generous board, The meal more copious, and a warmer fare; And longs, with old wood and old wine, to cheer His quaking heart. The ſeaſons which divide Th' empires of heat and cold; by neither claim'd, Influenc'd by both; a middle regimen Impoſe. Thro' autumn's languiſhing domain Deſcending, nature by degrees invites To glowing luxury. But from the depth Of winter, when th' invigorated year Emerges; when Favonius fluſh'd with love, Toyful and young, in every breeze deſcends More warm and wanton on his kindling bride; Then, ſhepherds, then begin to ſpare your flocks, And learn, with wiſe humanity, to check The luſt of blood. Now pregnant earth commits A various offspring to th' indulgent ſky: Now bounteous nature feeds with laviſh hand The prone creation; yields what once ſuffic'd Their dainty ſovereign, when the world was young; E'er yet the barbarous thirſt of blood had ſeiz'd The human breaſt. Each rolling month matures The food that ſuits it moſt; ſo does each clime. FAR in the horrid realms of winter, where Th' eſtabliſh'd ocean heaps a monſtrous waſte Of ſhining rocks and mountains to the pole; There lives a hardy race, whoſe plaineſt wants Relentleſs earth, their cruel ſtep-mother, Regards not. On the waſte of iron fields, Untam'd, untractable, no harveſts wave: Pomona hates them, and the clowniſh God Who tends the garden. In this frozen world Such cooling gifts were vain: a fitter meal Is earn'd with eaſe; for here the fruitful ſpawn Of Ocean ſwarms, and heaps their genial board With generous fare and luxury profuſe. Theſe are their bread, the only bread they know. Theſe, and their willing ſlave the deer, that crops The ſhrubby herbage on their meager hills. Girt by the burning zone, not thus the ſouth Her ſwarthy ſons, in either • nd, maintains: Or thirſty Lybia; from whoſe fervid loins The lion burſts, and every fiend that roams Th' affrighted wilderneſs. The mountain herd, Aduſt and dry, no ſweet repaſt affords; Nor does the tepid main ſuch kinds produce, So perfect, ſo delicious, as the ſtores Of icy Zembla. Raſhly where the blood Brews feveriſh frays; where ſcarce the tubes ſuſtain Its tumid fervor and tempeſtuous courſe; Kind nature tempts not to ſuch gifts as theſe. But here in livid ripeneſs melts the grape; Here, finiſh'd by invigorating ſuns, Thro' the green ſhade the golden Orange glows; Spontaneous here the turgid Melon yields A generous pulp; the Coco ſwells on high With milky riches; and in horrid mail The ſoft Ananas wraps its tender ſweets. Earth's vaunted progeny: in ruder air Too coy to flouriſh, even too proud to live; Or hardly rais'd by artificial fire To vapid life. Here with a mother's ſmile Glad Amalthea pours her copious horn. Here buxom Ceres reigns: th' autumnal ſea In boundleſs billows fluctuates o'er their plains. What ſuits the climate beſt, what ſuits the men, Nature profuſes moſt, and moſt the taſte Demands. The Fountain, edg'd with racy wine Or acid fruit, bedews their thirſty ſouls. The breeze eternal breathing round their limbs Supports in elſe intolerable air: While the cool Palm, the Plantain, and the grove That waves on gloomy Lebanon, aſſuage The torrid hell that beams upon their heads. Now come, ye Naiads, to the fountains lead; Now let me wander thro' your gelid reign. I burn to view th' enthuſiaſtic wilds By mortal elſe untrod. I hear the din Of waters thundering o'er the ruin'd cliffs. With holy rev'rence I approach the rocks Whence glide the ſtreams renown'd in ancient ſong Here from the deſart down the rumbling ſteep Firſt ſprings the Nile; here burſts the ſounding Po In angry waves; Euphrates hence devolves A mighty flood to water half the Eaſt; And there, in Gothic ſolitude reclin'd, The chearleſs Tanais pours his hoary urn. What ſolemn twilight! What ſtupendous ſhades! Enwarp theſe infant floods! Thro' every nerve A ſacred horror thrills, a pleaſing fear Glides o'er my frame. The foreſt deepens round; And more gigantic ſtill th' impending trees Stretch their extravagant arms athwart the gloom. Are theſe the confines of ſome fairy world? A land of Genii? Say, beyond theſe wilds What unknown nations? If indeed beyond Aught habitable lies. And whither leads, To what ſtrange regions, or of bliſs or pain, That ſubterraneous way? Propitious maids, Conduct me, while with fearful ſteps I tread This trembling ground. The taſk remains to ſing Your gifts (ſo Paeon, ſo the powers of health Command) to praiſe your chryſtal element: The chief ingredient in heaven's various works; Whoſe flexile genius ſparkles in the gem, Grows firm in oak, and fugitive in wine; The vehicle, the ſource of nutriment And life, to all that vegetate or live. O COMFORTABLE ſtreams! With eager lips And trembling hand the languid thirſty quaff New life in you; freſh vigour fills their veins. No warmer cups the rural ages knew; None warmer ſought the fires of human-kind. Happy in temperate peace! Their equal days Felt not th' alternate fits of feveriſh mirth, And ſick dejection. Still ſerene and pleas'd, They knew no pains but what the tender ſoul With pleaſure yields to, and would ne'er forget. Bleſt with divine immunity from ails, Long centuries they liv'd; their only fate Was ripe old age, and rather ſleep than death. Oh! could thoſe worthies from the world of Gods Return to viſit their degenerate ſons, How would they ſcorn the joys of modern time, With all our art and toil improv'd to pain! Too happy they! But wealth brought luxury, And luxury on ſloth begot diſeaſe. LEARN temperance, friends; and hear without diſdain The choice of water. Thus theHippocrates. Coan ſage Opin'd, and thus the learn'd of every ſchool. What leaſt of foreign principles partakes Is beſt: the lighteſt then; what bears the touch Of fire the leaſt, and ſooneſt mounts in air; The moſt inſipid; the moſt void of ſmell. Such the rude mountain from his horrid ſides Pours down; ſuch waters in the ſandy vale For ever boil, alike of winter froſts And ſummer's heat ſecure. The lucid ſtream, O'er rocks reſounding, or for many a mile Hurl'd down the pebbly channel, wholſome yields And mellow draughts; except when winter thaws, And half the mountains melt into the tide. Tho' thirſt were ne'er ſo reſolute, avoid The ſordid lake, and all ſuch drowſy floods As fill from Lethe Belgia's ſlow canals; (With reſt corrupt, with vegetation green; Squalid with generation, and the birth▪ Of little monſters;) till the power of fire Has from profane embraces diſengag'd The violated lymph. The virgin ſtream In boiling waſtes its finer ſoul in air. NOTHING like ſimple element dilutes The food, or gives the chyle ſo ſoon to flow. But where the ſtomach, indolently given, Toys with its duty, animate with wine Th' inſipid ſtream: tho' golden Ceres yields A more voluptuous, a more ſprightly draught; Perhaps more active. Wine unmix'd, and all The gluey floods that from the vex'd abyſs Of fermentation ſpring; with ſpirit fraught, And furious with intoxicating fire; Retard concoction, and preſerve unthaw'd Th' embodied maſs. You ſee what countleſs years, Embalm'd in fiery quinteſcence of wine, The puny wonders of the reptile world, The tender rudiments of life, the ſlim Unrav'lings of minute anatomy, Maintain their texture, and unchang'd remain! WE curſe not wine, the vile exceſs we blame; More fruitful than th' accumulated board Of pain and miſery. For the ſubtle draught Faſter and ſurer ſwells the vital tide; And with more active poiſon than the floods Of groſſer crudity convey, pervades The far-remote meanders of our frame. Ah! fly deceiver! Branded o'er and o'er, Yet ſtill believ'd! Exulting o'er the wreck Of ſober Vows! But the Parnaſſian maids Another time perhaps ſhall ſing the joys, The fatal charms, the many woes of wine; Perhaps its various tribes, and various powers. MEANTIME, I would not always dread the bowl, Nor every treſpaſs ſhun. The feveriſh ſtrife, Rous'd by the rare debauch, ſubdues, expels The loitering crudities that burthen life; And, like a torrent full and rapid, clears Th' obſtructed tubes. Beſides, this reſtleſs world Is full of chances, which by habit's power To learn to bear is eaſier than to ſhun. Ah! when ambition, meagre love of gold, Or ſacred country calls, with mellowing wine To moiſten well the thirſty ſuffrages; Say how, unſeaſon'd to the midnight frays Of comus and his rout, wilt thou contend With Centaurs long to hardy deeds inur'd? Then learn to revel; but by ſlow degrees: By ſlow degrees the liberal arts are won; And Hercules grew ſtrong. But when you ſmooth The brows of care, indulge your feſtive vein In cups by well-inform'd experience found The leaſt your bane; and only with your friends. There are ſweet follies, frailties to be ſeen By friends alone, and men of generous minds. OH! ſeldom may the fated hours return Of drinking deep! I would not daily taſte, Except when life declines, even ſober cups. Weak withering age no rigid law forbids, With frugal nectar, ſmooth and ſlow with balm, The ſapleſs habit daily to bedew, And give the heſitating wheels of life Gliblier to play. But youth has better joys; And is it wiſe when youth with pleaſure flows, To ſquander the reliefs of age and pain? WHAT dext'rous thouſands juſt within the goal Of wild debauch direct their nightly courſe • Perhaps no ſickly qualms bedim their days, No morning admonitions ſhock the head. But ah! what woes remain! Life rolls apace, And tottering empires ruſh by their own weight. This huge rotundity we tread grows old; And all thoſe worlds that roll around the ſun, The ſun himſelf ſhall die; and ancient Night Again involve the deſolate abyſs: Till the great FATHER thro' the lifeleſs gloom Extend his arm to light another world, And bid new planets roll by other laws. For thro' the regions of unbounded ſpace, Where unconfin'd omnipotence has room, BEING, in various ſyſtems, fluctuates ſtill Between creation and abhorr'd decay; It ever did▪ perhaps and ever will. New worlds are ſtill emerging from the deep; The old deſcending, in their turns to riſe.

THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK III. EXERCISE. THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK III. EXERCISE. THRO' various toils th' advent'rous muſe has paſt; But half the toil, and more than half, remains. Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for ſong; Plain, and of little ornament▪ and I But little practis'd in th' Aonian arts. Yet not in vain ſuch labours have we tried, If ought theſe lays the ſickle health confirm. To you, ye delicate, I write; for you I tame my youth to philoſophic cares, And grow 〈◊〉 paler by the midnight lamps. Not to 〈◊〉 with timorous rules A hardy frame; nor needleſly to brave Unglorious dangers, proud of mortal ſtrength; Is all the leſſon that in wholſome years Concerns the ſtrong. His Care were ill beſtow'd Who would with warm effeminacy nurſe The thriving oak, which on the mountain's brow Bears all the blaſts that ſweep the wint'ry heav'n. BEHOLD the labourer of the glebe, who toils In duſt, in rain, in cold and ſultry ſkies: Save but the grain from mildews and the flood, Nought anxious he what ſickly ſtars aſcend. He knows no laws by Eſculapius given; He ſtudies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs Infeſt, nor thoſe envenom'd ſhafts that fly When rabid Sirius fires th' autumnal noon. His habit pure with plain and temperate meale, Robuſt with labour, and by cuſtom ſteel'd To every caſualty of varied life; Serene he bears the peeviſh eaſtern blaſt, And uninfected breaths the mortal South. SUCH the reward of rude and ſober life; Of labour ſuch. By health the peaſant's toil Is well repaid; if exerciſe were pain Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like theſe Laconia nurs'd of old her hardy ſons; And Rome's unconquer'd legions urg'd their way, Unhurt, thro' every toil in every clime. TOIL, and be ſtrong. By toil the flaccid nerves Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone; The greener juices are by toil ſubdu'd, Mellow'd, and ſubtiliz'd; the vapid old Expell'd, and all the rancor of the blood. Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms Of nature and the year; come, let us ſtray Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk: Come, while the ſoft voluptuous breezes fan The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, And ſhed a charming languor o'er the ſoul. Nor when bright Winter ſows with prickly froſt The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blaſts This way and that convolve the lab'ring woods. My liberal walks, ſave when the ſkies in rain Or fogs relent, no ſeaſon ſhould confine Or to the cloiſter'd gallery or arcade. Go, climb the mountain; from th' etherial ſource Imbibe the recent gale. The chearful morn Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting ſteed, Already, ſee, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch The tainted mazes; and, on eager ſport Intent, with emulous impatience try Each doubtful tract. Or, if a nobler prey Delight you more, go chaſe the deſperate deer; And thro' its deepeſt ſolitudes awake The vocal foreſt with the jovial horn. BUT if the breathleſs chaſe o'er hill and dale Exceed your ſtrength; a ſport of leſs fatigue, Not leſs delightful, the prolific ſtream Affords. The chryſtal rivulet, that o'er. A ſtony channel rolls its rapid maze, Swarms with the ſilver fry. Such, thro' the bounds Of paſtoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Such Eden, ſprung from Cumbrian mountains; ſuch The Eſk, o'erhurg with woods; and ſuch the ſtream On whoſe Arcadian banks I firſt drew air, 〈◊〉 ; till now, except in Doric lays Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-ſick ſwains, Unknown in ſong: tho' not a purer ſtream, Thro' meads more flow'ry, or more romantic groves, Roll toward the weſtern main. Hail ſacred flood! May ſtill thy hoſpitable ſwains be bleſt In rural innocence; thy mountains ſtill Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods For ever flouriſh; and thy vales look gay With painted meadows, and the golden grain! Oft, with thy blooming ſons, when life was new, Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys, In thy tranſparent eddies have I lav'd: Oft trac'd with patient ſteps thy fairy banks, With the well-imitated fly to hook The eager trout, and with the ſlender line And yielding rod ſollicite to the ſhore The ſtruggling panting prey; while vernal clouds And tepid gales obſcur'd the ruffled pool, And from the deeps call'd forth the wanton ſwarms. FORM'D on the Samian ſchool, or thoſe of Ind, There are who think theſe paſtimes ſcarce humane. Yet in my mind (and not relentleſs I) His life is pure that wears no fouler ſtains. But if thro' genuine tenderneſs of heart, Or ſecret want of reliſh for the game, You ſhun the glories of the chace, nor care To haunt the peopled ſtream; the garden yields A ſoft amuſement, an humane delight. To raiſe th' inſipid nature of the ground; Or tame its ſavage genius to the grace Of careleſs ſweet ruſticity, that ſeems The amiable reſult of happy chance, Is to create; and gives a god-like joy, Which every year improves. Nor thou diſdain To check the lawleſs riot of the trees, To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. O happy he! whom, when his years decline, (His fortune and his fame by worthy means Attain'd, and equal to his moderate mind; His life approv'd by all the wiſe and good, Even envy'd by the vain) the peaceful groves Of Epicurus, from this ſtormy world Receive to reſt; of all ungrateful cares Abſolv'd, and ſacred from the ſelfiſh crowd. Happieſt of men! if the ſame ſoil invites A choſen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in eaſy commerce to purſue, Nature's free charms, and vie for ſylvan fame: A fair ambition; void of ſtrife or guile, Or jealouſy, or pain to be outdone. Who plans th' inchanted garden, who directs The viſto beſt, and beſt conducts the ſtream; Whoſe groves the faſteſt thicken and aſcend; Whom firſt the welcome ſpring ſalutes; who ſhews The earlieſt bloom, the ſweeteſt, proudeſt charms, Of Flora; who beſt gives Pomona's juice To match the ſprightly genius of Champain. Thrice happy days! in rural buſineſs paſt. Bleſt winter nights! when, as the genial fire Chears the wide hall, his cordial family With ſoft domeſtic arts the hours beguile, And pleaſing talk that ſtarts no timorous fame, With witleſs wantonneſs to hunt it down: Or thro' the fairy-land of tale or ſong Delighted wander, in fictitious fates Engag'd, and all that ſtrikes humanity; Till loſt in • able, they the ſtealing hour Of timely reſt forget. Sometimes, at eve, His neighbours lift the latch, and bleſs unbid His feſtal roof; while, o'er the light repaſt And ſprightly cups, they mix in ſocial joy; And, thro' the maze of converſation, trace Whate'er amuſes or improves the mind. Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taſte The native zeſt and flavour of the fruit, Where ſenſe grows wild, and takes of no manure). The decent, honeſt, chearful huſbandman, Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl; And at my table find himſelf at home. WHATE'ER you ſtudy, in whate'er you ſweat, Indulge your taſte. Some love the manly foils; The tennis ſome; and ſome the graceful dance. Others, more hardy, range the purple heath, Or naked ſtubble; where from field to field The ſounding coveys urge their labouring flight; Eager amid the riſing cloud to pour The gun's unerring thunder: and there are Whom ſtill theThis word is much uſed by ſome of the old English poets, and, ſignifies Reward or Prize. meed of the green archer charms. He chuſes beſt, whoſe labour entertains His vacant fancy moſt: the toil you hate Fatigues you ſoon, and ſcarce improves your limbs. As beauty ſtill has blemiſh; and the mind The moſt accompliſh'd its imperfect ſide; Few bodies are there of that happy mould But ſome one part is weaker than the reſt: The legs, perhaps, or arms refuſe their load, Or the cheſt labours. Theſe aſſiduouſly, But gently, in their proper arts employ'd, Acquire a vigour and elaſtic ſpring, To which they were not born. But weaker parts Abhor fatigue and violent diſcipline. BEGIN with gentle toils; and, as your nerves Grow firm, to hardier by juſt ſteps aſpire. The prudent, even in every moderate walk, At firſt but ſaunter; and by ſlow degrees Increaſe their pace. This doctrine of the wiſe Well knows the maſter of the flying ſteed. Firſt from the goal the manag'd courſers play On bended reins; as yet the ſkilful youth Repreſs their foamy pride; but every breath The race grows warmer, and the tempeſt ſwells; Till all the fiery mettle has its way, And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. When all at once from indolence to toil You ſpring, the fibres by the haſty ſhock Are tir'd and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Compreſs'd, can pour the lubricating balm. Beſides, collected in the paſſive veins, The purple maſs a ſudden torrent rolls, O'erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs With dangerous inundation: oft the ſource Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood. Aſthma, and • ellerThe inflammation of the lungs. Peripneumonie, Or the ſlow minings of the hectic fire. TH' athletic fool, to whom what heav'n deny'd Of ſoul is well compenſated in limbs, Oft from his rage, or brainleſs frolic, feels His vegetation and brute force decay. The men of better clay and finer mould Know nature; feel the human dignity; And ſcorn to vie with oxen or with apes. Purſu'd prolixly, even the gentleſt toil Is waſte of health: repoſe by ſmall fatigue Is earn'd; and (where your habit is not prone To thaw) by the firſt moiſture of the brows. The fine and ſubtle ſpirits coſt too much To be profus'd, too much the roſcid balm. But when the hard varieties of life You toil to learn; or try the duſty chace, Or the warm deeds of ſome important day: Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs In wiſh'd repoſe, nor court the fanning gale, Nor taſte the ſpring. O! by the ſacred tears Of widows, orphans, mothers, ſiſters, ſires, Forbear! No other peſtilence has driven Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep. Why this ſo fatal, the ſagacious muſe Thro' nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: But there are ſ • crets which who knows not now, Muſt, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Of ſcience; and devote ſeven years to toil. Beſides, I would not ſtun your patient cars With what it little boots you to attain. He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Where lurk the ſhelves, and where the whirlpools boil. What ſigns portend the ſtorm: to ſubtler minds He leaves to ſcan, from what myſterious cauſe Charybdis rages in th' Ionian wave; Whence thoſe impetuous currents in the main, Which neither oar nor ſail can ſtem; and why The rough'ning deep expects the ſtorm, as ſure As red Orion mounts the ſhrouded heaven. Is ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied For poliſh'd luxury and uſeful arts; All hot and reeking from th' Olympic ſtrife. And warm Paleſtra, in the tepid bath Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary'd limbs. Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Of Nard and Caſſia fraught, to ſooth and heal The cheriſh'd nerves. Our leſs voluptuous clime Not much invites us to ſuch arts as theſe. 'Tis not for thoſe, whom gelid ſkies embrace, And chilling fogs; whoſe perſpiration feels Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North; 'Tis not for thoſe to cultivate a ſkin Too ſoft; or teach the recremental fume Too faſt to crowd thro' ſuch precarious ways. For thro' the ſmall arterial mouths, that pierce In endleſs millions the cloſe-woven ſkin, The baſer fluids in a conſtant ſtream Eſcape, and viewleſs melt into the winds. While this eternal, this moſt copious waſte Of blood degenerate into vapid brine, Maintains its wonted meaſure; all the powers Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life With eaſe and pleaſure move: but this reſtrain'd Or more or leſs, ſo more or leſs you feel The functions labour. From this fatal ſource What woes deſcend is never to be ſung. To take their numbers, were to count the ſands That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Lybian air; Or waves that, when the bluſtering North embroils The Baltic, thunder on the German ſhore. Subject not then, by ſoft emollient arts, This grand expence, on which your fates depend, To every caprice of the ſky; nor thwart The genius of your clime: for from the blood Leaſt fickle riſe the recremental ſteams, And leaſt obnoxious to the ſtyptic air, Which breathe thro' ſtraiter and more callous pores. The temper'd Scythian hence, half naked treads His boundleſs ſnows, nor rues th' inclement heaven; And hence our painted anceſtors defied The Eaſt; nor curs'd, like us, their ſickle ſky. THE body, moulded by the clime, endures, Th' Equator 〈◊〉 or Hyperborean froſt: Except by habits foreign to its turn, Unwiſe, you counteract its forming pow'r. Rude at the firſt, the winter ſhocks you leſs. By long acquaintance: ſtudy then your ſky, Form to its manners your obſequious frame. And learn to ſuffer what you cannot ſhun. Againſt the rigours of a damp cold heav'n To fortify their bodies, ſome frequent The gelid ciſtern; and, where nought forbids. I praiſe their dauntleſs heart. A frame ſo ſteel'd Dreads not the cough, nor thoſe ungenial blaſts, That breathe the Tertian or fell Rheumatiſm; The nerves ſo temper'd never quit their tone, No chronic languors haunt ſuch hardy breaſts. But all things have their bounds: and he who makes By daily uſe the kindeſt regimen Eſſential to his health, ſhould never mix With human kind, nor art nor trade purſue: He not the ſafe viciſſitudes of life Without ſome ſhock endures; ill-fitted he To want the known, or bear unuſual things: Beſides, the powerful remedies of pain (Since pain in ſpite of all our care will come) Should never with your proſperous days of health Grow too familiar: For by frequent uſe The ſtrongeſt medicines loſe their healing power, And even the ſureſt poiſons theirs to kill. LET thoſe who from the frozen Arctos reach Parch'd Mauritania, or the ſultry Weſt, Or the wide flood that waters Indoſtan, Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave Untwiſt their ſtubborn pores; that full and free Th' evaporation thro' the ſoft'ned ſkin May bear proportion to the ſwelling blood. So ſhall they ſcape the fever's rapid flames; So feel untainted the hot breath of hell. With us, the man of no complaint demands The warm ablution, juſt enough to clear The ſluices of the ſkin, enough to keep The body ſacred from indecent ſoil. Still to be pure, even did it not conduce (As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Your daily pains. 'Tis this adorns the rich; The want of this is poverty's worſt woe: With this external virtue, age maintains A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Are loathſome. This the ſkilful virgin knows: So doubtleſs do your wives. For married ſires, As well as lovers, ſtill pretend to taſte; Nor is it leſs (all prudent wives can tell) To loſe a huſband's, than a lover's heart. BUT now the hours and ſeaſons when to toil, From foreign themes recal my wandering ſong. Some labour faſting, or but ſlightly fed, To lull the grinding ſtomach's hungry rage: Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame, 'Tis wiſely done. For while the thirſty veins, Impatient of lean penury, devour The treaſur'd oil, then is the happieſt time To ſhake the lazy balſam from its cells. Now while the ſtomach from the full repaſt Subſides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, Ye leaner habits give an hour to toil: And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth Oppreſſes yet, or threatens to oppreſs. But from the recent meal no labours pleaſe, Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering ſpirits to a work Of ſtrong and ſubtle toil, and great event; A work of time: and you may rue the day You hurried, with ill-ſeaſoned exerciſe, A half concocted chyle into the blood. The body overcharg'd with unctuous phlegm Much toil demands: the lean elaſtic leſs. While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins, No labours are too hard: by thoſe you 'ſcape The ſlow diſeaſes of the torpid year; Endleſs to name; to one of which alone, To that which tears the nerves, the toil of ſlaves Is pleaſure: oh! from ſuch inhuman pains May all be free who merit not the wheel! But from the burning Lion when the ſun Pours down his ſultry wrath; now while the blood Too much already maddens in the veins, And all the finer fluids thro' the ſkin Explore their flight; me, near the cool caſcade Reclin'd, or ſauntring in the lofty grove, No needleſs ſlight occaſion ſhould engage To pant and ſweat beneath the fiery noon. Now the freſh morn alone and mellow eve To ſhady walks and active rural ſports Invite. But while the chilling dews deſcend, May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace Of humid ſkies: tho' 'tis no vulgar joy To trace the horrors of the ſolemn wood, While the ſoft evening ſaddens into night: Tho' the ſweet poet of the vernal groves Melts all the night in ſtrains of amorous woe. THE ſhades deſcend, and midnight o'er the world Expands her fable wings. Great nature droops Thro' all her works. Now happy he whoſe toil Has o'er his languid powerleſs limbs diffus'd A pleaſing laſſitude: he not in vain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams. His powers the moſt voluptuouſly diſſolve In ſoft repoſe: on him the balmy dews Of ſleep with double nutriment deſcend. But would you ſweetly waſte the blank of night In deep oblivion; or on fancy's wings Viſit the paradiſe of happy dreams, And waken chearful as the lively morn; Oppreſs not nature ſinking down to reſt With feaſts too late, too ſolid, or too full. But be the firſt concoction half-matur'd, Ere you to mighty indolence reſign Your paſſive faculties. He from the toils And troubles of the day to heavier toil Retires, whom trembling from the tower that rocks Amid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height, The buſy daemons hurl, or in the main O'erwhelm, or bury ſtruggling under ground. Not all a monarch's luxury the woes Can counterpoiſe, of that moſt wretched man, Whoſe nights are ſhaken with the frantic fits Of wild Oreſtes; whoſe delirious brain, Stung by the furies, works with poiſoned thought: While pale and monſtrous painting ſhocks the ſoul; And mangled conſciouſneſs bemoans itſelf For ever torn; and chaos floating round. What dreams preſage, what dangers theſe or thoſe Portend to ſanity, tho' prudent ſeers Reveal'd of old, and men of deathleſs fame; We would not to the ſuperſtitious mind Suggeſt new throbs, new vanities of fear. 'Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night To baniſh omens, and all reſtleſs woes. IN ſtudy ſome protract the ſilent hours, Which others conſecrate to mirth and wine; And ſleep till noon, and hardly live till night. But ſurely this redeems not from the ſhades One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail What ſeaſon you to drowſy Morpheus give Of th' ever varying circle of the day; Or whether, thro' the tedious winter gloom, You tempt the midnight or the morning damps. The body, freſh and vigorous from repoſe, Defies the early fogs; but, by the toils Of wakeful day, exhauſted and unſtrung, Weakly reſiſts the night's unwholſome breath. The grand Diſcharge, th' effuſion of the ſkin, Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies Creep on, and thro' the ſick'ning functions ſteal. So, when the chilling Eaſt invades the ſpring, The delicate Narciſſus pines away In hectic languor; and a ſlow diſeaſe Taints all the family of flowers, condemn'd To cruel heav'ns. But why, already prone To fade, ſhould beauty cheriſh its own bane? O ſhame! O pity! nipt with pale Quadrille, And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies! By toil ſubdu'd, the Warrior and the Hind Sleep faſt and deep; their active functions ſoon With generous ſtreams the ſubtle tubes ſupply, And ſoon the tonick irritable nerves Feel the freſh impulſe, and awake the ſoul. The ſons of Indolence, with long repoſe, Grow torpid; and, with ſloweſt Lethe drunk, Feebly and lingringly return to life, Blunt every ſenſe, and powerleſs every limb. Ye, prone to ſleep (whom ſleeping moſt annoys) On the hard mattraſs or elaſtic couch Extend your limbs, and wean yourſelves from ſloth; Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain And ſpringy nerves, the blandiſhments of down. Nor envy while the buried bacchanal Exhales his ſurfeit in prolixer dreams. HE without riot in the balmy feaſt Of life, the wants of nature has ſupplied Who riſes cool, ſerene, and full of ſoul. But pliant nature more or leſs demands, As cuſtom forms her; and all ſudden change She hates of habit, even from bad to good. If faults in life, or new emergencies, From habits urge you by long time confirm'd, Slow may the change arrive, and ſtage by ſtage; Slow as the ſhadow o'er the dial moves, Slow as the ſtealing progreſs of the year. OBSERVE the circling year. How unperceiv'd Her ſeaſons change! Behold! by ſlow degrees, Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder ſpring; The ripen'd Spring a milder ſummer glows; Departing Summer ſheds Pomona's ſtore; And aged Autumn brews the Winter-ſtorm. Slow as they come, theſe changes come not void Of mortal ſhocks: the cold and torrid reigns, The two great periods of th' important year, Are in their firſt approaches ſeldom ſafe: Funereal autumn all the ſickly dread, And the black fates deform the lovely ſpring. He well advis'd, who taught our wiſer • ires Early to borrow Muſcovy's warm ſpoils, Ere the firſt froſt has touch'd the tender blade; And late reſign them, tho' the wanton ſpring Should deck her charms with all her ſiſter's rays. For while the effluence of the ſkin maintains Its native meaſure, the pleuritic Spring Glides harmleſs by; and Autumn, ſick to death With • allow Quartans, no contagion breathes. I IN prophetic numbers could unfold The omens of the year: what ſeaſons teem With what diſeaſes; what the humid South Prepares, and what the Daemon of the • aſt. But you perhaps refuſe the tedious ſong. Beſides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, Or drought, or moiſture dwell, they hurt not you. Skill'd to correct the vices of the ſky, And taught already how to each extream To bend your life. But ſhould the public bane Infect you, or ſome treſpaſs of your own, Or flaw of nature hint mortality: Soon as a not unpleaſing horror glides Along the ſpine, thro' all your torpid limbs; When firſt the head throbs, or the ſtomach feels A ſickly load, a weary pain the loins; Be Celſus call'd: the fates come ruſhing on; The rapid fates admit of no delay. While wilful you, and fatally ſecure, Expect to morrow's more auſpicious ſun, The growing peſt, whoſe infancy was weak And eaſy vanquiſh'd, with triumphant ſway O'erpowers your life. For want of timely care Millions have died of medicable wounds. AH! in what perils is vain life engag'd! What ſlight neglects, what trivial faults deſtroy The hardieſt frame! Of indolence, of toil, We die; of want, of ſuperfluity. The all-ſurrounding heaven, the vital air, Is big with death. And, tho' the putrid South Be ſhut; tho' no convulſive agony Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, Th' impriſoned plagues; a ſecret venom oft Corrupts the air, the water, and the land. What livid deaths has ſad Byzantium ſeen! How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe. Wept o'er her ſlaughter'd ſons, and lonely ſtreets▪ Even Albion, girt with leſs malignant ſkies, Albion the poiſon of the Gods has drunk, And felt the ſting of monſters all her own. ERE yet the fell Plantagenets had ſpent Their ancient rage, at Boſworth's purple field; While for which tyrant England ſhould receive Her legions in inceſtuous murders mix'd, And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd: Another plague of more gigantic arm Aroſe, a monſter never known before, Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head. This rapid fury not, like other peſts, Purſu'd a gradual courſe, but in a day Ruſh'd as a ſtorm o'er half th' aſtoniſh'd iſle, And ſtrew'd with ſudden carcaſes the land. FIRST thro' the ſhoulders, or whatever part Was ſeiz'd the firſt, a fervid vapour ſprung. With raſh combuſtion thence, the quivering ſpark Shot to the heart, and kindled all within; And ſoon the ſurface caught the ſpreading fires. Thro' all the yielding pores the melted blood Guſh'd out in ſmoaky ſweats; but nought aſſuag'd The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd The ſtomach's anguiſh. With inceſſant toil, Deſperate of eaſe, impatient of their pain, They toſs'd from ſide to ſide. In vain the ſtream Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirſted ſtill. The reſtleſs arteries with rapid blood Beat ſtrong and frequent. Thick and pantingly The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings heav'd. At laſt a heavy pain oppreſs'd the head, A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Were ſtrangers now, and this no home of theirs. Haraſs'd with toil on toil, the ſinking powers Lay proſtrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous ſleep Wrapt all the ſenſes up: they ſlept and died. IN ſome a gentle horror crept at firſt O'er all the limbs; the ſluices of the ſkin Withheld their moiſture, till by art provok'd The ſweats o'erflow'd; but in a clammy tide: Now free and copious, now reſtrain'd and ſlow; Of tinctures various, as the temperature Had mix'd the blood; and rank with fetid ſteams: As if the pent-up humors by delay Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign, Here lay their hopes (tho' little hope remain'd) With full effuſion of perpetual ſweats To drive the venom out. And here the fates Were kind, that long they linger'd not in pain. For who ſurviv'd the ſun's diurnal race, Roſe from the dreary gates of hell redeem'd: Some the ſixth hour oppreſs'd, and ſome the third. OF many thouſands few untainted 'ſcap'd; Of thoſe infected fewer 'ſcap'd alive: Of thoſe who liv'd ſome felt a ſecond blow; And whom the ſecond ſpar'd a third deſtroy'd. Frantic with fear, they ſought by flight to ſhun The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land Th' infected city pour'd her hurrying ſwarms: Rous'd by the flames that fir'd her •• ats around, Th' infected country ruſh'd into the town. Some, ſad at home, and in the deſart ſome. Abjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind; In vain: where'er they fled the Fates purſu'd. Others with hopes more ſpecious, croſs'd the main, To ſeek protection in far-diſtant ſkies; But none they found. It ſeem'd the general air Was then at enmity with Engliſh blood. For, but the race of England, all were ſafe In foreign climes; nor did this fury taſte The foreign blood which Albion then contain'd. Where ſhould they fly? The circumambient heaven Involv'd them ſtill, and every breeze was bane. Where find relief? The ſalutary art Was mute; and, ſtartled at the new diſeaſe, In fearful whiſpers hopeleſs omens gave. To heaven with ſuppliant rites they ſent their pray'rs, Heav'n heard them not. Of every hope depriv'd; Fatigu'd with vain reſources; and ſubdu'd With woes reſiſtleſs and enfeebling fear; Paſſive they ſunk beneath the weighty blow. Nothing but lamentable ſounds was heard, Nor ought was ſeen but ghaſtly views of death; Infectious horror ran from face to face, And pale deſpair. 'Twas all the buſineſs then To tend the ſick, and in their turns to die. In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they ſay, The ſickening, dying, and the dead contain'd. YE guardian Gods, on whom the Fates depend Of tottering Albion! Ye eternal fires, That lead thro heav'n the wandering year! Ye pow'rs That o'er th' incircling elements preſide! May nothing worſe than what this age has ſeen Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home Has Albion bled. Here a diſtemper'd heaven Has thin'd her cities; from thoſe lofty cliffs That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wint'ry reign; While in the Weſt, beyond th' Atlantic foam, Her braveſt ſons, keen for the fight, have died The death of cowards, and of common men; Sunk void of wounds, and fall'n without renown. BUT from theſe views the weeping Muſes turn, And other themes invite my wandering ſong.

THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK IV. The PASSIONS. THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH. BOOK IV. The PASSIONS. THE choice of aliment, the choice of air, The uſe of toil, and all external things, Already ſung; it now remains to trace What good what evil from ourſelves proceeds: And how the ſubtle principle within Inſpires with health, or mines with ſtrange decay The paſſive body. Ye poetic Shades, That know the ſecrets of the world unſeen, Aſſiſt my ſong! For, in a doubtful theme Engag'd, I wander thro' myſterious ways. THERE is, they ſay (and I believe there is) A ſpark within us of th' immortal fire, That animates and moulds the groſſer frame; And when the body ſinks, eſcapes to heaven, Its native ſeat; and mixes with the Gods. Mean while this heavenly particle pervades The mortal elements, in every nerve It thrills with pleaſure, or grows mad with pain. And, in its ſecret conclave, as it feels The body's woes and joys, this ruling power Weilds at its will the dull material world, And is the body's health or malady. BY its own toil the groſs corporeal frame Fatigues, extenuates, or deſtroys itſelf: Nor leſs the labours of the mind corrode The ſolid fabric. For by ſubtle parts, And viewleſs atoms, ſecret Nature moves The mighty wheels of this ſtupendous world. By ſubtle fluids pour'd thro' ſubtle tubes The natural, vital functions, are perform'd. By theſe the ſtubborn aliments are tam'd; The toiling heart diſtributes life and ſtrength; Theſe the ſtill-crumbling frame rebuild; and theſe Are loſt in thinking, and diſſolve in air. BUT 'tis not Thought (for ſtill the ſoul's employ'd) 'Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay. All day the vacant eye without fatigue Strays o'er the heaven and earth; but long intent On microſcopic arts its vigour fails. Juſt ſo the mind, with various thoughts amus'd, Nor aches itſelf, nor gives the body pain. But anxious Study, Diſcontent, and Care, Love without Hope, and Hate without revenge, And Fear, and Jealouſy, fatigue the ſoul, Engroſs the ſubtle miniſters of life, And ſpoil the lab'ring functions of their ſhare. Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears; The Lover's paleneſs; and the ſallow hue Of Envy, Jealouſy; the meagre ſtare Of ſore Revenge: the canker'd body hence Betrays each fretful motion of the mind. THE ſtrong-built pedant; who both night and day Feeds on the coarſeſt fare the ſchools beſtow, And crudely fattens at groſs Burman's ſtall; O'erwhelm'd with phlegm lies in a dropſy drown'd, Or ſinks in lethargy before his time. With uſeful ſtudies you, and arts that pleaſe, Employ your mind, amuſe, but not fatigue. Peace to each drowſy metaphyſic ſage! And ever may the German folio's reſt! And ſome there are, even of elaſtic parts, Whom ſtrong and obſtinate ambition leads Thro' all the rugged roads of barren lore, And gives to reliſh what their generous taſte Would elſe refuſe. But may nor thirſt of fame, Nor love of knowledge urge you to fatigue With conſtant drudgery the liberal ſoul. Toy with your books: and, as the various fits Of humour ſeize you, from Philoſophy To Fable ſhift; from ſerious Antonine To Rabelais' ravings, and from proſe to ſong. WHILE reading pleaſes, but no longer, read; And read aloud, reſounding Horner's ſtrain, And weild the thunder of Demoſthenes. The cheſt ſo exercis'd improves its ſtrength; And quick vibrations thro' the bowels drive The reſtleſs blood, which in unactive days Would loiter elſe thro' unelaſtic tubes. Deem it not trifling while I recommend What poſture ſuits: to ſtand and ſit by turns, As nature prompts, is beſt. But o'er your leaves To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts, And robs the fine machinery of its play. 'Tis the great art of life to manage well The reſtleſs mind. For ever on purſuit Of knowledge bent it ſtarves the groſſer powers. Quite unemploy'd, againſt its own repoſe It turns its fatal edge, and ſharper pangs Than what the body knows imbitter life. Chiefly where Solitude, ſad nurſe of care, To ſickly muſing gives the penſive mind. There madneſs enters; and the dim-ey'd Fiend, Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes Her own eternal wound. The ſun grows pale; A mournful viſionary light o'erſpreads The chearful face of nature: earth becomes A dreary deſart, and heaven frowns above. Then various ſhapes of curs'd illuſion riſe; Whate'er the wretched fears, creating Fear Forms out of nothing; and with monſters teems Unknown in hell. The proſtrate ſoul beneath A load of huge imagination heaves. And all the horrors that the guilty feel, With anxious flutterings wake the guiltleſs breaſt. SUCH phantoms Pride in ſolitary ſcenes, Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates. From other cares abſolv'd, the buſy mind Finds in yourſelf a theme to pore upon; It finds you miſerable, or makes you ſo. For while yourſelf you anxiouſly explore, Timorous Self-love, with ſick'ning Fancy's aid, Preſents the danger that you dread the moſt, And ever galls you in your tender part. Hence ſome for love, and ſome for jealouſy, For grim religion ſome, and ſome for pride, Have loſt their reaſon: ſome for fear of want Want all their lives; and others every day For fear of dying ſuffer worſe than death. Ah! from your boſoms baniſh, if you can, Thoſe fatal gueſts: and firſt the Daemon Fear; That trembles at impoſſible events, Leſt aged Atlas ſhould reſign his load, And heav'n's eternal battlements ruſh down, Is there an evil worſe than fear itſelf? And what avails it that indulgent heaven From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come, If we, ingenious to torment ourſelves, Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own? Enjoy the preſent; nor with needleſs cares, Of what may ſpring from blind Misfortune's womb, Appal the ſureſt hour that life beſtows. Serene, and maſter of yourſelf, prepare For what may come; and leave the reſt to heaven. OFT from the body, by long ails miſtun'd, Theſe evils ſprung the moſt important health, That of the mind, deſtroy: and when the mind They firſt invade, the conſcious body ſoon In ſympathetic languiſhment declines. Theſe chronic paſſions, while from real woes They riſe, and yet without the body's fault Infeſt the ſoul, admit one only cure; Diverſion, hurry, and a reſtleſs life. Vain are the conſolations of the wiſe, In vain your friends would reaſon down your pain. Oh ye whoſe ſouls relentleſs love has tam'd To ſoft diſtreſs, or friends untimely ſlain! Court not the luxury of tender thought: Nor deem it impious to forget thoſe pains That hurt the living, nought avail the dead. Go, ſoft enthuſiaſt! quit the cypreſs groves, Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune Your ſad complaint. Go, ſeek the chearful haunts Of men, and mingle with the buſtling croud; Lay ſchemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wiſh Of nobler minds, and puſh them night and day. Or join the caravan in queſt of ſcenes New to your eyes, and ſhifting every hour; Beyond the Alps, beyond the Appennines. Or, more advent'rous, ruſh into the field Where war grows hot; and, raging thro' the ſky, The lofty trumpet ſwells the maddening ſoul: And in the hardy camp and toilſome march Forget all ſofter and leſs manly cares. BUT moſt too paſſive, when the blood runs low, Too weakly indolent to ſtrive with pain, And bravely oy reſiſting conquer Fate, Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl Of poiſon'd Nectar ſweet oblivion drink. Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom diſſolves In empty air; Elyſium opens round. A pleaſing phrenzy buoys the lighten'd ſoul, And ſanguine hopes diſpel your fleeting care; And what was difficult, and what was dire, Yields to your proweſs and ſuperior ſtars: The happieſt you of all that e'er were mad, Or are, or ſhall be, could this folly laſt. But ſoon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom Shuts o'er your head: and, as the thundering ſtream, Swoln o'er its banks with ſudden mountain rain, Sinks from its tumult to a ſilent brook; So, when the frantic raptures in your breaſt Subſide, you languiſh into mortal man; You ſleep, and waking find yourſelf undone. For, prodigal of life, in one raſh night You laviſh'd more than might ſupport three days A heavy morning comes; your cares return With ten-fold rage. An anxious ſtomach well May be endur'd; ſo may the throbbing head: But ſuch a dim delirium, ſuch a dream, Involves you; ſuch a daſtardly deſpair Unmans your ſoul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt When, baited round Citheron's cruel ſides, He ſaw two ſuns, and double Thebes aſcend: You curſe the ſluggiſh Port; you curſe the wretch. The felon, with unnatural mixture firſt Who dar'd to violate the virgin Wine. Or on the fugitive Champain you pour A thouſand curſes; for to heaven your ſoul It rapt, to plunge you deeper in deſpair. Perhaps you rue even that divineſt gift, The gay, ſerene, good-natur'd Burgundy, Or the freſh fragrant vintage of the Rhine: And wiſh that heaven from mortals had withheld The grape, and all intoxicating bowls. BESIDES, it wounds you ſore to recollect What follies in your looſe unguarded hour Eſcap'd. By one irrevocable word, Perhaps that meant no harm, you loſe a friend. Or in the rage of wine your haſty hand Performs a deed to haunt you to your grave. Add that your means, your health, your parts decay; Your friends avoid you; brutiſhly transform'd They hardly know you; or if one remains To wiſh you well, he wiſhes you in heaven. Deſpis'd, unwept you fall; who might have left A ſacred, cheriſh'd, ſadly-pleaſing name; A name ſtill to be utter'd with a ſigh. Your laſt ungraceful ſcene has quite effac'd All ſenſe and memory of your former worth? How to live happieſt; how avoid the pains, The Diſappointments, and diſguſts of thoſe Who would in pleaſure all their hours employ; The precepts here of a divine old man I could recite. Tho' old, he ſtill retain'd His manly ſenſe, and energy of mind. Virtuous and wiſe he was, but not ſevere; He ſtill remember'd that he once was young; His eaſy preſence check'd no decent joy. Him even the diſſolute admir'd; for he A graceful looſeneſs when he pleas'd put on, And laughing could inſtruct. Much had he read, Much more had ſeen; he ſtudied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind. VERS'D in the woes and vanities of life, He pitied man: and much he pitied thoſe Whom falſely-ſmiling fate has curs'd with means To diſſipate their days in queſt of joy. Our aim is Happineſs; 'tis yours, 'tis mine, He ſaid, 'tis the purſuit of all that live; Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd. But they the wideſt wander from the mark, Who thro' the flow'ry paths of ſaunt'ring joy Seek this coy Goddeſs; that from ſtage of ſtage Invites us ſtill, but ſhifts as we purſue. For not to name the pains that pleaſure brings To counterpoiſe itſelf, relentleſs Fate Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds Should ever roam: and were the Fates more kind, Our narrow luxuries would ſoon be ſtale. Were theſe exhauſtleſs, Nature would grow ſick, And, cloy'd with pleaſure, ſqueamiſhly complain That all was vanity, and life a dream. Let nature reſt: be buſy for yourſelf, And for your friend; be buſy even in vain Rather than teize her ſated appetites. Who never faſts no banquet e'er enjoys; Who never toils or watches never ſleeps. Let nature reſt: and when the taſte of joy Grows keen, indulge; but ſhun ſatiety. 'TIS not for mortals always to be bleſt. But him the leaſt the dull or painful hours Of life oppreſs, whom ſober Senſe conducts And Virtue, thro' this labyrinth we tread. Virtue and Senſe I mean not to disjoin: Virtue and Senſe are one; and, truſt me, he Who has not virtue, is not truly wiſe. Virtue (for meer good-nature is a fool) Is ſenſe and ſpirit, with humanity: 'Tis ſometimes angry, and its frown confounds: 'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance juſt. Knaves fain would laugh at it; ſome great ones dare; But at his heart the moſt undaunted ſon Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms. To nobleſt uſes this determines wealth; This is the ſolid pomp of proſperous days; The peace and ſhelter of adverſity. And if you pant for glory, build your fame On this foundation, which the ſecret ſhock Defies of Envy and all-ſapping Time. The gawdy gloſs of Fortune only ſtrikes The vulgar eye: the ſuffrage of the wiſe, The praiſe that's worth ambition, is attain'd By Senſe alone, and dignity of mind. VIRTUE, the ſtrength and beauty of the ſoul, Is the beſt gift of heaven: a happineſs That even above the ſmiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er incumbers, nor to baſer hands Can be transferr'd: it is the only good Man juſtly boaſts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baſeneſs earn'd; Or dealt by chance, to ſhield a lucky knave, Or throw a cruel ſun-ſhine on a fool. But for one end, one much-neglected uſe, Are riches worth your care: (for Nature's wants Are few, and without opulence ſupplied.) This noble end is, to produce the Soul; To ſhew the virtues in their faireſt light; To make Humanity the Miniſter Of bounteous Providence; and teach the Br •• ſt That generous luxury the Gods enjoy. THUS, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage Sometimes declaim'd. Of Right and Wrong he taught Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard; And ſtrange to tell▪) he practis'd what he preach'd. Skill'd in the Paſſions, how to check their ſway He knew, as far as Reaſon can controul The lawleſs Powers. But other cares are mine: Form'd in the ſchool of Paeon, I relate What Paſſions hurt the body, what improve: Avoid them, or invite them, as you may. KNOW then, whatever chearful and ſerene Supports the mind, ſupports the body too. Hence the moſt vital movement mortals feel Is Hope; the balm and life-blood of the ſoul. It pleaſes, and it laſts. Indulgent heaven Sent down the kind deluſion, thro' the paths Of rugged life; to lead us patient on; And make our happieſt ſtate no tedious thing. Our greateſt good, and what we leaſt can ſpare, Is Hope; the laſt of all our evils, Fear. BUT there are Paſſions grateful to the breaſt, And yet no friends to Life; perhaps they pleaſe Or to exceſs, and diſſipate the ſoul; Or while they pleaſe, torment. The ſtubborn clown, The ill-tam'd Ruſſian, and pale Uſurer, (If Love's omnipotence ſuch hearts can mould) May ſafely mellow into love; and grow Refin'd, humane, and generous, if they can Love in ſuch boſoms never to a fault Or pains or pleaſes. But ye finer Souls, Form'd to ſoft luxury, and prompt to thrill With all the tumults, all the joys and pains, That beauty gives; with caution and reſerve Indulge the ſweet deſtroyer of repoſe, Nor court too much the Queen of charming cares. For, while the cheriſh'd poiſon in your breaſt Ferments and maddens; ſick with jealouſy, Abſence, diſtruſt, or even with anxious joy, The wholſome appetites and powers of life Diſſolve in languor. The coy ſtomach loaths The genial board: your chearful days are gone: The generous bloom that fluſh'd your cheeks is fled. To ſighs devoted, and to tender pains. Penſive you ſit, or ſolitary ſtray, And waſte your youth in muſing. Muſing firſt Toy'd into care your unſuſpecting heart: It found a liking there, a ſportful fire, And that fomented into ſerious love; Which muſing daily ſtrengthens and improves Thro' all the heights of fondneſs and romance: And you're undone, the fatal ſhaft has ſped, If once you doubt whether you love or no. The body waſtes away; th' infected mind, Diſſolv'd in female tenderneſs, forgets Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame. Sweet heaven, from ſuch intoxicating charms, Defend all worthy breaſts! Not that I deem Love always dangerous, always to be ſhunn'd. Love well repaid, and not too weakly ſunk In wanton and unmanly tenderneſs, Adds blooom to Health; o'er every virtue ſheds A gay, humane, and amiable grace, And brightens all the ornaments of man. But fruitleſs, hopeleſs, diſappointed, rack'd With jealouſy, fatigu'd with hope and fear, Too ſerious, or too languiſhingly fond, Unnerves the body, and unmans the ſoul. And ſome have died for Love; and ſome run mad And ſome with deſperate hand themſelves have ſlain. SOME to extinguiſh, others to prevent, A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair, Court all they meet; in hopes to diſſipate The cares of Love amongſt a hundred Brides. Th' event is doubtful: for there are who find A cure in this; there are who find it not. 'Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls The wound, to thoſe who are ſincerely ſick. For while from feveriſh and tumultuous joys The nerves grow languid, and the ſoul ſubſides; The tender Fancy ſmarts with every ſting; And what was Love before is Madneſs now. Is health your care, or luxury your aim, Be temperate ſtill: when Nature bi •• , obey; Her wild impatient • allies bear no curb. But when the prurient habit of delight. Or looſe imagination, ſpurs you on To deeds above your ſtrength, impute it not To Nature: Nature all compulſion hates. Ah' let nor luxury nor vain renown Urge you to feats you well might ſleep without; To make what ſhould be rapture a fatigue, A tedious taſk; nor in the wanton arms Of twining Laïs melt your manhood down. For from the colliquation of ſoft joys How chang'd you riſe! the ghoſt of what you was! Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan; Your veins exhauſted, and your nerves unſtrung. Spoil'd of its balm and ſprightly zeſt, the blood Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves (To each ſlight impulſe tremblingly awake) A ſubtle Fiend that mimics all the plagues, Rapid and reſtleſs, ſprings from part to part. The blooming honours of your youth are fallen; Your vigour pines; your vital powers decay; Diſeaſes haunt you; and untimely Age Creeps on; unſocial, impotent, and lewd. Infatuate, impious epicure! to waſte The ſtores of pleaſure, chearfulneſs, and health! Infatuate all who make delight their trade, And coy perdition every hour purſue. WHO pines with Love, or in laſcivious flames Conſumes, is with his own conſent undone: He chuſes to be wretched, to be mad; And warn'd proceeds and wilful to his fate. But there's a Paſſion, whoſe tempeſtuous ſway Tears up each virtue planted in the breaſt, And ſhakes to ruins proud philoſophy. For pale and trembling Anger ruſhes in, With fault'ring ſpeech, and eyes that wildly ſtare: Fierce as the Tyger, madder than the ſeas, Deſperate, and arm'd with more than human ſtrength. How ſoon the calm, huma •• and poliſh'd man, Forgets compunction, and ſtarts up a fiend! Who pines in Love, or waſtes with ſilent Cares, Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief, Slowly deſcends, and ling'ring to the ſhades. But he whom Anger ſtings, drops, if he dies, At once, and ruſhes apoplectic down; Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell. For, as the Body thro' unnumber'd ſtrings Reverberates each vibration of the Soul; As is the Paſſion, ſuch is ſtill the Pain The Body feels; or chronic, or acute. And oft a ſudden ſtorm at once o'erpowers The Life, or gives your Reaſon to the winds. Such fates attend the raſh alarm of Fear, And ſudden Grief, and Rage, and ſudden Joy. THERE are, mean time, to whom the boiſt'rous fit Is health, and only fills the ſails of life. For where the Mind a torpid winter leads, Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold, And each clogg'd function lazily moves on; A generous ſally ſpurns th' incumbent load, Unlocks the breaſt, and gives a cordial glow. But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil, Or are you nerves too irritably ſtrung; Wave all Diſpute; be cautious if 〈◊〉 joke; Keep Lent for ever; and forſwear the bowl. For one raſh 〈◊〉 ſends you to the ſhades, Or ſhatters every hopeful ſcheme of life, And gives to horror all your days to come. Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and every plague That ruins, tortures, or diſtracts mankind, And makes the happy wretched in an hour, O'erwhelms you not with woes ſo horrible As your own wrath, nor gives more ſudden blows. WHILE choler works, good friend, you may be wrong; Diſtruſt yourſelf, and ſleep before you fight. 'Tis not too late to morrow to be brave; If Honour bids, to morrow kill or die. But calm advice againſt a raging fit Avails too little; and it tries the power Of all that ever taught in Proſe or Song, To tame the Fiend that ſteeps a gentle Lamb, And wakes a Lion. Unprovok'd and calm, You reaſon well, ſee as you ought to ſee▪ And wonder at the madneſs of mankind: Seiz'd with the common rage, you ſoon forget The ſpeculations of your wi •• hours. Beſet with Furies of all deadly ſhapes, Fierce and inſidious, violent and ſlow; With all that urge or lure us on to Fate; What refuge ſhall we ſeek? what arms prepare? Where Reaſon proves too w •• k or void of wiles, To cope with ſubtle or im 〈7 letters〉 Powers, I would invoke new Paſſions to your aid: With indignation would extinguiſh Fear, With Fear or generous Pity vanquiſh Rage, And Love with Pride; and force to force oppoſe. THERE is a Charm: a Power that ſways the breaſt; Bids every Paſſion revel or be ſtill; Inſpires with Rage, or all your Cares diſſolves; Can ſooth Diſtraction, and almoſt Deſpair. That Power is Muſic: far beyond the ſtretch Of thoſe unmeaning warblers on our ſtage; Thoſe clumſy Heroes, thoſe ſat-headed Gods. Who move no Paſſion juſtly but Contempt: Who, like our Dancers (light indeed and ſtrong!) Do wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace. The fault is ours; we bear thoſe monſtrous arts. Good Heaven we praiſe them: we, with loudeſt peals, Applaud the fool that higheſt lifts his heels; And with inſipid ſhew of rapture, die Of ideot notes, impertinently long. But he the Muſe's laurel juſtly ſhares, A Poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire; Who, with bold rage or ſolemn pomp of ſounds, Inflames, exalts, and raviſhes the ſoul▪ Now tender, plaintive, ſweet almoſt to pain, In Love diſſolves you; now in ſprightly ſtrains Breathes a gay ••• ure thro' your thrilling breaſt; Or melts th • 〈…〉 with airs divinely ſad, Or wakes to horror the tremendous ſtrings. Such was the bard, whoſe heavenly ſtrains of old Appeas'd the Fiend of melancholy Saul. Such was, if old and h • athen fame ſay true. The man who bade the Theban domes aſcend, And tam'd the ſavage nations with his ſong; And ſuch the Thracian, whoſe harmonious lyre, Tun'd to ſoft woe, made all the mountains weep: Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of Hell. And half redeem'd his loſt Eurydice. Muſic exalts each Joy, allays each Grief, Expels Diſeaſes, ſoftens every Pain, Subdues the rage of Poiſon, and the Plague; And hence the wiſe of ancient days ador'd One Power of Phyſic, Melody, and Song.

The END.