To the Editor of the Oxford Magazine.

IF

SIR,

Briftol, Jan. 9, 1772. think the following lines merit a you place in your next Magazine, beg you'll infert them, and you'll give much pleasure to your conftant reader, A. B. C.

OF all the fpectacles, to mend the

Ο

fight,

The RECLUSE. An Elegy.

Thofe are most ufeful which the prudent

place,

High on the handle of the human face;
Some on the temples fix them, I fuppofe,
Left they fhou'd feem to fnuffle thro' the
nofe;

Some in one hand the fingle convex hold,
But thefe are Prigs, afham'd of being old.
None are in news or politicks fo wife,
As he whofe nofe is faddled with his eyes.
And if the taper tube regale his fnout,
There's nought fo fecret but he'll smell it

out.

life,

Phylenor fought true happiness to find, And far beyond the reach of noify ftrife Retir'd; and left the bufy world behind.

In the deep bofom of a grove he found A grot, by nature form'd in days of Thick arching oaks high o'er the mansion old; frown'd;

Beneath, a brook in murmuring mazes roll'd.

at home,

trees,

To this retreat, the Sage with joy withdrew,

Nor felt a wifh for aught he left behind; Here, tafting pleasures pure, refin'd, and

new,

To contemplation he his foul refign'd,

In folitude the circling hours he spent, No cares corroding wound his peaceful breast,

But with the heav'n-defcended nymph, Content,

His days he pass’d in unmolested rest.

No more Ambition fires his peaceful mind;

The voice of Fame no longer charms

his ear,

No more to pomp, and noif; mirth inclin'd,

Or bound to wealth by golden chains

N n

of care.

In

In this fweet haunt where Wisdom loves to dwell,

To her inftructions he attention pays, With her, delighted in his humble cell, He learns her precepts and repeats her lays.

Each morn awak'd by Philomela's lays, Ere Sol with crimson decks the purple East,

He rifes vig'rous, and his tribute pays, While joy fublime dilates his grateful breaft.

While pure devotion rifing in his foul,

The Lord of Nature humbly he adores; While in his breaft ferene reflections roll, The various fcenes of nature he explores.

The circling feafons he obferves with care,
And marks the progrefs of the rifing
fpring;-
How spicy gales perfume the genial air;

How flow'rs expand, and birds harmonious fing.

Each plant, and shrub, that circled round

his cell

He prun'd, and fashion'd just as fancy led;

Their Names and Natures none could better tell,

Or why they tow'ring rofe, or widely fpread."

The tuneful tribes that vocal made the grove,

By him were taught t'affemble at his call; Perch on his hand, or round the grot to reve,

Or fill with mufic fweet his rural hall. Thefe, he wou'd teach to imitate the found

Of notes articulate, and human fong, Which made the grove with harmony refound,

And eve's cool hours did pleasingly prolong.

Fair bloom'd the flow'rs around the peaceful cave,

The vi'let, primrofe, and their kindred train,

No wanton hands, of him their sweets bereave,

But fweet they flourish on the fmiling plain.

Contentment here with meek-ey'd peace refides,

And joy and temp'rance pitch their tents around,

And smiling health o'er all that breathe prefides,

And harmless pleasure frolicks o'er the ground.

'Twas here Phylenor found fubstantial joy

Joy unexperienc'd by the fons of care; Unmix'd with pain, untemper'd with alloy;

His days were chearful, and his ev'ning fair. EUSEBIUS.

The Requifites of an Happy Life. An ODE of MARTIAL, imitated by Dr. GIBBONS.

ΙΜΙΤΑΤΙΟ Ν.

THE
HESE things, my friend, (the
Mufe believe)

To life the highest relish give:
A competency not procur'd
By care and labour long endur'd,
But ready gotten to our hand,
Whether in cash, or fertile land;
A decent villa of our own;
Grounds, that to feed in handfuls fown,
Return in Autumn's fultry reign
Redundant crops of golden grain;
Freedom from ftrife of ev'ry fort;
A vifit once a year to Court;
A mind in its own empire bleft;
A body which no pains moleft;
An elevated turn of thought,
That foars beyond the vulgar's lot;
A child's fimplicity of mind,
With all a Sage's prudence join'd;
A fet of faithful friends, our peers
In rank, in fortune, and in years;
Provisions eafy to obtain;
A table plentiful, but plain;
The night in drinking never spent,
Yet pait with cafe and fweet content;
True to her marriage-vow through life ;
A loving pleasant-temper'd wife,
Slumbers fo gentle, fo ferene,
As leave a perfect blank between
The moment, when our eyelids clofe,
And that which wakes them from re-
pofe;

In our condition fo much blifs,
As to be pleas'd with what it is,
Nor figh for one enjoyment more
In Nature's wide unbounded ftore;
A view of life's laft hour, that brings
Our diffolution on its wings,
Without a wish to urge its speed,
Or from its rapid flight recede.

The

bleft;

Small was his living, but his heart at eft;

Unseen, unblam'd, he pafs'd his time away,

He walk'd, he wrote, he fmok'd, or mus'd all day.

Thro' all the year no anxious care he knew,

Except at Eafter, when he claim'd his due;

And then the furly ruftic's churlish pride His well-earn'd fees difputed or deny'd: The Vicar still preferring want to strife, Gave up his fees to lead a peaceful life. His garden once in pentive mood he fought,

His pipe attended as a friend to thought; And as the whiffs in eddies round him play'd,

A neighbouring Vicar ent'ring, he furvey'd ;

One, like himself, a downright honeft priest,

Whofe love of peace his fcanty dues decreas'd.

Suppofe the little ceremonies done, And all the rites of lighting pipes be

Juft e'er I came, a ruftic braggart elf, Proud of his purfe, and glorying in his

pelf,

Came. bold demanding, And what's to pay?

What claims the priest that we maintain to pray?

The account he gave me of his stock, I knew,

Was half curtail'd, and scarce one num ber true;

Howe'er, my filence favour'd the deceit, Being fond of quiet, I conceal'd the cheat: But when the mall, the half demand I made,

He bully'd,fwore, and damn'd the preaching trade,

All God's good household with irreverence curft,

And me, with foul abufe, as far the worst!

Thou know'ft, my friend, what ago nizing finart

Such brutal outrage gives a tender heart. Too well, alas! too fatally I know From whence thofe confecrated evils flow ;

From Tythes, my friend, the Clergy's woes arife,

They mar religion, nay, they rob the fkies.

Would God, our Monarch's ever gracious hand,

In this, would deign to blefs this wretched land!

Would God, that Tythes like Taxes might be paid,

Affix the rev'nue by fome ftatute made; How then would bleft Religion rear her head,

And Virtue thro' each village kindly spread !

With what felicity each foul be bleft! How happy then Parishioner and Prieft!" Thus at true grievances the priests repin'd, And, with their own, fpoke all their

brethren's mind,

While toll'd the bell, unto the church

flow move