_P_. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? 240 Whose table, wit, or modest merit share, Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player? Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,[37] To ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O Fortune! gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden mean! There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And honour linger ere it leaves the land. But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:[38] 250 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns toss'd, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? 260 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? 'The Man of Ross,' each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread: He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate: Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270 Is there a variance? enter but his door, Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race. _B_. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue What all so wish, but want the power to do! Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines, to swell that boundless charity? _P_. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd--five hundred pounds a-year. 280 Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze! Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays! _B_. And what? no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? _P_. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name: Go, search it there,[39] where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between; Proved, by the ends of being, to have been. 290 When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch who, living, saved a candle's end: Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay, extends his hands; That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.[40] Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend! And see what comfort it affords our end!