The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields

were won.

Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side, But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all :
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd;
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the strugling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to
raise,

And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran:

E'en children followed with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest:

To them his heart, his love,his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Tho' round its brest the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace, The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declar'd how much he knew, 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e'en the story ran that he could guage:
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,

For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thund'ring sound

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around,

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, That one mall head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame:....the very spot

Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing

eye,

Low lies that house where nut brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil re

tir'd,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendors of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken teacups, wisely kept for shew,

Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain transitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid,half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ;
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting, asks if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,

'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted

ore,

And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains....This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss: the man of wealth and pride, Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds; Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth,

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress sup

plies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when those charms are past, for ha

are frail,

arms

When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then snines forth, solicitous to bless,