And he would lastly be the nation’s guide,
But, studying, fail’d to fix upon a side;
Fame he desired, and talents he possess’d,
But loved not labour, though he could not rest,
Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind,
That, ever working, could no centre find. 
   ’Tis thus a sanguine reader loves to trace
The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race;
Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes
Through sterile deserts and by threat’ning foes;
He thinks not then of Afric’s scorching sands,
Th’ Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands;
Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all, {4}
Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call: 
He of success alone delights to think,
He views that fount, he stands upon the brink,
And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to drink. 
   In his own room, and with his books around,
His lively mind its chief employment found;
Then idly busy, quietly employ’d,
And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy’d: 
Yet still he took a keen inquiring view
Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue;
And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene,
He, unemploy’d, beheld life’s shifting scene: 
Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares,
Still more unfitted for the world’s affairs. 
   There was a house where Edward ofttimes went,
And social hours in pleasant trifling spent;
He read, conversed, and reason’d, sang and play’d,
And all were happy while the idler stay’d;
Too happy one! for thence arose the pain,
Till this engaging trifler came again. 
   But did he love?  We answer, day by day,
The loving feet would take th’ accustom’d way,
The amorous eye would rove as if in quest
Of something rare, and on the mansion rest;
The same soft passion touch’d the gentle tongue,
And Anna’s charms in tender notes were sung;
The ear, too, seem’d to feel the common flame,
Soothed and delighted with the fair one’s name;
And thus, as love each other part possess’d,
The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power confess’d. 
   Pleased in her sight, the Youth required no more;
Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor;
And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved,
To pain the being whom his soul approved. 
   A serious Friend our cautious Youth possess’d,
And at his table sat a welcome guest;
Both unemploy’d, it was their chief delight
To read what free and daring authors write;
Authors who loved from common views to soar,
And seek the fountains never traced before: 
Truth they profess’d, yet often left the true
And beaten prospect, for the wild and new. 
His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen,
His fortune easy, and his air serene;
Deist and atheist call’d; for few agreed
What were his notions, principles, or creed;
His mind reposed not, for he hated rest,
But all things made a query or a jest;
Perplex’d himself, he ever sought to prove