But Fluxions, Sections, Algebraic lore, Our Peter left for others to explore, 110 And, quickly turning to a favourite kind, Found what rejoiced him at his heart to find. Sir Walter wrote not then, or He by whom Such gain and glory to Sir Walter come— That Fairy-Helper, by whose secret aid Such views of life are to the world convey’d— As inspiration known in after-times, The sole assistant in his prose or rhymes. But there were fictions wild that please the boy, Which men, too, read, condemn, reject, enjoy— 120 Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales were there, One volume each, and both the worse for wear; There by Quarles’ Emblems Esop’s Fables stood, The coats in tatters, and the cuts in wood. There, too, “The English History,” by the pen Of Doctor Cooke, and other learned men, In numbers, sixpence each; by these was seen, And highly prized, the Monthly Magazine— Not such as now will men of taste engage, But the cold gleanings of a former age, 130 Scraps cut from sermons, scenes removed from plays, With heads of heroes famed in Tyburn’s palmy days. The rest we pass—though Peter pass’d them not, But here his cares and labours all forgot. Stain’d, torn, and blotted every noble page, Stood the chief poets of a former age— And of the present; not their works complete, } But in such portions as on bulks we meet, } The refuse of the shops, thrown down upon the street. } There Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton found a place, 140 With some a nameless, some a shameless, race, Which many a weary walker resting reads, And, pondering o’er the short relief, proceeds, While others, lingering, pay the written sum, Half loth, but longing for delight to come. Of the Youth’s morals we would something speak, Taught by his Mother what to shun or seek. She show’d the heavenly way, and in his youth, Press’d on his yielding mind the Gospel truth, How weak is man, how much to ill inclined, 150 And where his help is placed, and how to find. These words of weight sank deeply in his breast, And awful Fear and holy Hope imprest. He shrank from vice, and at the startling view, As from an adder in his path, withdrew. All else was cheerful. Peter’s easy mind To the gay scenes of village-life inclined. The lark that soaring sings his notes of joy, Was not more lively than th’ awaken’d boy. Yet oft with this a softening sadness dwelt, 160 While, feeling thus, he marvell’d why he felt. “I am not sorry,” said the Boy, “but still, The tear will drop—I wonder why it will!” His books, his walks, his musing, morn and eve, Gave such impressions as such minds receive; And with his moral and religious views Wove the wild fancies of an Infant-Muse, Inspiring thoughts that he could not express, [Obscure-sublime]! his secret happiness. Oft would he strive for words, and oft begin 170