He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise; But he may boast, what few that win it can, That if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and for decorum sake Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling, and that vice, Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed, Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfilled, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, I played awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task, but soon to please her more, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, ’tis true, Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be despised. But all is in His hand whose praise I seek, In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If He regard not, though divine the theme. ’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre, To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation—prosper even mine. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN; SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, “Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.