’Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times,
Howe’er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. 
Vices when ridiculed, experience says,
First lose that horror which they ought to raise,
Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise.

* * * * *

[The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood,
May make us hypocrites, but seldom good.

* * * * *

Besides, in men have varying passions made
Such nice confusions, blending, light with shade,
That eager zeal to laugh the vice away
May hurt some virtue’s intermingling ray.

* * * * *

Then let good-nature every charm exert,
And while it mends it, win th’ unfolding heart. 
Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear,
Yet smile unconscious of th’ extorted tear. 
See with what grace instructive satire flows,
Politely keen, in Olio’s numbered prose! 
That great example should our zeal excite,
And censors learn from Addison to write. 
So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain,
Might soft humanity resume her reign;
Pride without rancour feel th’ objected fault,
And folly blush, as willing to be taught;
Critics grow mild, life’s witty warfare cease,
And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace.

  THE ENTHUSIAST

  Once—­I remember well the day,
  ’Twas ere the blooming sweets of May
  Had lost their freshest hues,
  When every flower on every hill,
  In every vale, had drank its fill
  Of sunshine and of dews.

  In short, ’twas that sweet season’s prime
  When Spring gives up the reins of time
  To Summer’s glowing hand,
  And doubting mortals hardly know
  By whose command the breezes blow
  Which fan the smiling land.

  ’Twas then, beside a greenwood shade
  Which clothed a lawn’s aspiring head,
  I urged my devious way,
  With loitering steps regardless where,
  So soft, so genial was the air,
  So wondrous bright the day.

  And now my eyes with transport rove
  O’er all the blue expanse above,
  Unbroken by a cloud! 
  And now beneath delighted pass,
  Where winding through the deep-green grass
  A full-brimmed river flowed.

  I stop, I gaze; in accents rude,
  To thee, serenest Solitude,
  Bursts forth th’ unbidden lay;
  ’Begone vile world! the learned, the wise,
  The great, the busy, I despise,
  And pity even the gay.

  ’These, these are joys alone, I cry,
  ’Tis here, divine Philosophy,
  Thou deign’st to fix thy throne! 
  Here contemplation points the road
  Through nature’s charms to nature’s God! 
  These, these are joys alone!

  ’Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares,
  Ye human hopes, and human fears,
  Ye pleasures and ye pains!’
  While thus I spake, o’er all my soul
  A philosophic calmness stole,
  A stoic stillness reigns.