Farewell! to _him_ whom, just across my way, I see his shop attending day by day; Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes. Young though he is, yet careful there he stands, Opening his shop with his own ready hands; Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves, Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves— But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade He has his shop an ark for all things made; 10 And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye, His sundry wares in strange confusion lie— Delightful token of the haste that keeps Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps; Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away, And order smiles on the returning day. Most ready tradesman he of men! alive To all that turns to money—he must thrive. Obsequious, civil, loath t’ offend or trust, And full of awe for greatness—thrive he must: 20 For well he knows to creep; and he in time, By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb. Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate For hours in useful meditation sate; Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand, To make him—hard the labour!—understand. But, when of learning he enough possess’d For his affairs, who would might learn the rest; All else was useless, when he had obtain’d Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain’d. 30 He envied no man for his learning: he Who was not rich, was poor with BARNABY; But he for envy has no thought to spare, Nor love nor hate—his heart is in his ware. Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise! To him how bright the opening day, how blest The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest! To him the nation’s state is all unknown, Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 40 You talk of patriots, men who give up all, Yea, life itself, at their dear country’s call: He look’d on such as men of other date— Men to admire, and not to imitate; They as his Bible-Saints to him appear’d: Lost to the world, but still to be revered. Yet there’s a Widow, in a neighbouring street, Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet; Her’s house and land; and these are more delight To him than learning, in the proverb’s spite. 50 The Widow sees at once the Trader’s views, And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse. Yet there are moments when a woman fails In such design, and so the man prevails. Love she has not; but, in a guardless hour, May lose her purpose, and resign her power; Yet all such hazard she resolves to run, Pleased to be woo’d, and fearless to be won. Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside, Are kept and shown to feed a woman’s pride: 60 Old-fashion’d, ugly, call them what she will, They serve as signs of her importance still. She thinks they might inferior forms adorn And does not love to hear them used with scorn;