Then first she calls the useful many forth;
     Plain plodding Industry, and sober Worth: 
     Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
     And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth: 
     Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
     And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds. 
     Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
     The lead and buoy are needful to the net: 
     The caput mortuum of grnss desires
     Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
     The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,
     She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,
     Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave designs,
     Law, physic, politics, and deep divines;
     Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles,
     The flashing elements of female souls.

     The order’d system fair before her stood,
     Nature, well pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good;
     But ere she gave creating labour o’er,
     Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
     Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter,
     Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;
     With arch-alacrity and conscious glee,
     (Nature may have her whim as well as we,
     Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it),
     She forms the thing and christens it—­a Poet: 
     Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow,
     When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow;
     A being form’d t’ amuse his graver friends,
     Admir’d and prais’d—­and there the homage ends;
     A mortal quite unfit for Fortune’s strife,
     Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;
     Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
     Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;
     Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
     Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

     But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
     She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work: 
     Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
     She cast about a standard tree to find;
     And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
     Attach’d him to the generous, truly great: 
     A title, and the only one I claim,
     To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

     Pity the tuneful Muses’ hapless train,
     Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main! 
     Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
     That never gives—­tho’ humbly takes enough;
     The little fate allows, they share as soon,
     Unlike sage proverb’d Wisdom’s hard-wrung boon: 
     The world were blest did bliss on them depend,
     Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!”
     Let Prudence number o’er each sturdy son,
     Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
     Who feel by reason and who give by rule,
     (Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!)
     Who make poor “will do” wait upon “I should”—­