_Bunyan_’s fam’d _Pilgrim_ rests that shelf upon, A genius rare but rude was honest _John_; Not one who, early by the Muse beguil’d, Drank from her well, the waters undefil’d; Not one who slowly gain’d the Hill sublime, Then often sipp’d and little at a time; But one who dabbled in the sacred Springs, And drank them muddy, mix’d with baser things. Here to _interpret Dreams_ we read the rules, Science our own! and never taught in schools; In Moles and Specks we Fortune’s gifts discern, And Fate’s fix’d will from Nature’s wanderings learn. Of Hermit _Quarle_ we read in island rare, Far from Mankind and seeming far from Care; Safe from all want and sound in every limb; Yes! there was he and there was Care with him. Unbound and heap’d these valued works beside, Laid humbler works, the pedler’s pack supplied; Yet these, long since, have all acquir’d a name; The _Wandering Jew_ has found his way to fame: And fame, denied to many a labour’d song, Crowns _Thumb_ the great and _Hickerthrift_ the strong. There too is he, by wizard-power upheld, _Jack_, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell’d; His shoes of swiftness on his feet he plac’d; His coat of darkness on his loins he brac’d; His sword of sharpness in his hand he took, And off the heads of doughty Giants stroke; Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near; No sound of feet alarm’d the drowsy ear; No English blood their pagan sense could smell, But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell. These are the Peasant’s joy, when, plac’d at ease, Half his delighted Offspring mount his knees. To every Cot the Lord’s indulgent mind, Has a small space for Garden-ground assign’d; Here--till return of morn dismiss’d the farm-- The careful Peasant plies the sinewy arm, Warm’d as he works and casts his look around On every foot of that improving ground: It is his own he sees; his Master’s eye, Peers not about, some secret fault to spy; Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;-- Hope, profit, pleasure,--they are all his own. Here grow the humble _Cives_ and hard by them, The tall _Leek_, tapering with his rushy stem; High climb his Pulse in many an even row, Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below, And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste, Give a warm relish to the Night’s repast. Apples and Cherries grafted by his hand, And cluster’d Nuts for neighbouring market stand. Nor thus concludes his labour; near the Cot, The Reed-fence rises round some favourite spot; Where rich Carnations, Pinks with purple eyes, } Proud Hyacinths, the least some Florist’s prize,} Tulips tall-stemm’d and pounc’d Auricula’s rise.} Here on a Sunday-eve, when Service ends, Meet and rejoice a Family of Friends;