And if not all th’ importunate demand,
The fear of want restrains my ready hand: 
- Behold! what sums I to the poor resign,
Sums placed in Heaven’s own book, as well as mine: 
Rest then, my spirit!—­fastings, prayers, and alms,
Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,
And weigh’d against our frailties, set in view
A noble balance in our favour due: 
Add that I yearly here affix my name,
Pledge for large payment—­not from love of fame,
But to make peace within;—­that peace to make,
“What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake! 
Cheer up, my heart! let’s cast off every doubt,
Pray without dread, and place our money out.” 
   Such the religion of a mind that steers
Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;
Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,
And thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;
Whose virtues all their certain limits know,
Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;
Who for success and safety ever tries,
And with both worlds alternately complies. 
   Such are the Guardians of this bless’d estate,
Whate’er without, they’re praised within the gate;
That they are men, and have their faults, is true;
But here their worth alone appears in view: 
The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,
Has something of the secrets there express’d,
But yet in charity;—­and when she sees
Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,
And knows how much united minds effect,
She almost dreads their failings to detect;
But Truth commands:  —­in man’s erroneous kind,
Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind,
Happy!—­when fears to public spirit move,
And even vices do the work of love. {8}

LETTER XVIII.

Bene paupertas
Humili tecto contenta latet. 
                      Seneca.

Omnes quibu’ res sunt minu’ secundae, magi’ sunt, nescio quo modo,
Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;
Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi. 
          
                                                  TEPENT.

Show not to the poor thy pride,
Let their home a cottage be;
Nor the feeble body hide
In a palace fit for thee;
Let him not about him see
Lofty ceilings, ample halls,
Or a gate his boundary be,
Where nor friend or kinsman calls.

Let him not one walk behold,
That only one which he must tread,
Nor a chamber large and cold,
Where the aged and sick are led;
Better far his humble shed,
Humble sheds of neighbours by,
And the old and tatter’d bed,
Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

To quit of torpid sluggishness the cave,
And from the pow’rful arms of sloth be free,
’Tis rising from the dead—­Alas! it cannot be. 
          
                              Thomson.

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The poor and their dwellings. {9}