Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there;—
But he is bless'd, and I lament no more
A wise good man, contented to be poor.
Then died a Rambler: not the one who sails
And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails;
Not one, who posts from place to place—of men
And manners treating with a flying pen;
Not he, who climbs, for prospects, Snowd[o]n's height,
And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;
No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar,