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CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE POLITE CLERGYMAN.

ARE these the Messengers, whose warning voice
Should call from vanity to works of life,
And honestly
"" reprove, exhort, admonish?”
Fearless of pride, and deaf to pleasure's call
And lucre's sophistry, who pure should walk
And by example point the way to Heav'n?
No, they are traitors in the camp of Christ,
Who come with plausible and faithless lips
Into his presence to profess allegiance,

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Then turn their backs and give the hand to Mammon. In pleasure's tumult who more oft than they?

To Dura's golden idol who will bend

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With humbler front? The frown of wealthy vice
They fear, and, heedless of the threaten'd wo,
Bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter put*,
And thus adulterate the bread of life.

Yes, Spirit of Cowper, I obey and list

Thy harp, with holy indignation fir'd,

Pour forth these strains, not more severe than just.
Loose in morals, and in manners vain,
In conversation frivolous, in dress

Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park with lady at their side,
Ambling and prattling scandal as they go,
But rare at home, and never at their books,
Or with their pen, save when they scrawl a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyships-but strangers to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth,
By infidelity and love of the world,

To make God's work a sinecure; firm slaves
To their own pleasures and their patron's pride :

* Isa. v. 20.

Who mount the sacred rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cry-hem; and, reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
From such Apostles, O ye mitred heads,
Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands
On sculls that cannot teach, and will not learn!"
AULUS MAURITIUS.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE EVENING WALK.

A TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or through the shelving wood,
Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite
Of Nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
That winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights, and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please, and something to instruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor presents her page

Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun :
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,
And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast

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Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth

Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still shelter'd and secure.
That makes the high elm
The humble lily spares.

And so the storm

couch, and rends the oak,
A thousand blows

That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.

But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy,
The courtier of the sun. What see we there?
The love-sick cowslip, that her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this,

A college youth that flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit,

Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine.

Then mark

The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps

All night, and never lifts an eye all day.

How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars

Shine in the azure canopy of Heav'n,

As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd
With silver daisies.

See, the toiling swain

With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last

The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought To win the glory of the barren waste!

For what more noble than the vernal furze

With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords

Drawn to defend it. Tis the treasury

Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet,
Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his hand,
And quaff the subtle ether. Here they dance
Or to the village chimes, or moody song
Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see
Fantastically trod. There, Oberon

His gallant train leads out, the while his torch.
The glow-worm lights and dusky night illumes.
And there they foot it fearly round, and laugh.
The sacred spot the superstitious ewe
Regards, and bites it not in reverence.

Anon the drowsy clock tolls One-the cock
His clarion sounds-the dance breaks off-the lights
Are quench'd--the music hush'd-they speed away
Swifter than thought, and still the break of day
Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies,
Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves
Her flimsy web, while sober Reason sits,
And smiling, wonders at the puny work,
A net for her; then springs on eagle wing,
Constraint defies, and soars above the sun,

But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her sea of leaves; thither we turn our steps,
And by the way attend the cheerful sound
Of woodland harmony, that always fills
The merry vale between. How sweet the song
-Day's harbinger attunes! I have not heard
Such elegant divisions drawn from art.

And what is he that wins our admiration?
A little speck that floats upon the sun-beam.
What vast perfection cannot Nature crowd
Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her solo anthem sung, and all that heard,
Content, joins in the chorus of the day.
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Just shows her talent, pleases, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.

I love to see the little goldfinch pluck The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit; And then in bow'r of apple blossoms perch'd, Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song. I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.

The chimney-haunting swallow, too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twitter'd to young-ey'd day.

But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,

No glue to join; his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finish'd. What nice hand,
With every implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Foudly then
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.

The bee observe;
She too an artist is, and laughs at man,
Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon
With truth to form; a cunning architect,
That at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation. How she toils,
And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r,
Travels the live-long day. Ye idle drones,
That rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honest means like these, look here, and learn
How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis
To live by industry. The busy tribes
Of bees so emulous, are daily fed

With Heaven's peculiar mapna. 'Tis for them, Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world

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