Let this be held the Farmer's creed.
For stock, seek out the choicest breed,
In peace and plenty let them feed.
Your land sow with the best of seed,
Let it nor dung, nor dressing need,
Enclose and drain it with all speed,
And you will soon be rich indeed.
FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.
There are other paths to the temple of fame, than those which lead through blood and slaughter. This truth cannot too frequently be inculcated on the minds of the rising generation. Our own country keeps pace with the nations of the old world, in applauding deeds of arms; apparently forgetful of the fact, that there are other incentives to ambition, of a much more useful and honourable character. He who augments the stock of public happiness, by improving the condition of his fellow creatures, or enriches the nation by developing her resources, is entitled to her thanks, and will probably receive them: At all events he will reap with certainty the high reward of self-approbation. The following stanzas to the memory of the late Duke of Bridgewater, were written by one who enjoys the rare distinction of being at once a painter and a poet, of no ordinary pretensions. What ample scope is furnished to Pennsylvania, and what cogent inducements may be found in the example of some of her neighbours, for adopting zealously, without further delay, a great and efficient plan of Internal Improvement. Should she evince the public spirit of Bridgewater, a Brindley will no doubt be found, to aid her in the important object of uniting the waters of the Ohio and the Delaware. This would add one more to the catalogue of those pacific but glorious triumphs, which have rendered her name celebrated throughout the civilized world.
I.
ON THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER.
From Shee's "Rhymes on Art."
Shall Egerton[7] depart without a tear?
And press in silent state a plumeless bier?
No, though his tomb no martial glories grace,
No trophies won in wild Ambition's race;
Though no vain pen on History's pompous page
Paint the deep statesman to th' astonish'd age;
Lay open all the labyrinth of his breast—
What plans he form'd—what factions he suppress'd;
What flames of war broke forth as he desir'd—
Cool'd as he calm'd, or kindled as he fir'd;
Yet life's mild Arts their spotless ensigns wave,
And grateful swains strow garlands on his grave.
Though crown'd with all in rank, or wealth that charms,
And lulls th' enfeebled soul in Pleasure's arms,
Behold him, yet in man's meridian hour,
Fly the false glare of pomp, and pride, and pow'r;
Decline the Court's intrigues, the Senate's, strife,
To serve his country in secluded life;
To ope new arteries of public health,
Promote her pride and circulate her wealth;
Call forth a Brindley's genius, and command,
To pierce opposing mountains with his wand,
Through wondering vales, in liquid course to lead
Commercial keels, and navigate the mead;
Bid in bright tracks obedient currents glide,
And, like a river-god, direct the tide.