Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And even his failings leaned to Virtue's fide;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he prayed and felt, for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed where parting life was layed, And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguifh fled the ftruggling foul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faultering accents whispered praife.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to fcoff, remained to pray.

The

The service paft, around the pious man,

With fteady zeal each honeft rustic ran;

Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to fhare the good man's fmile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth expreft,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares diftreft;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had reft in Heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm,
Tho' round its breaft the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.

Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way,
With bloffomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noify manfion, skill'd to rule,
The village mafter taught his little fchool;
A man severe he was, and ftern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning-face;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the bufy whifper circling round,
Conveyed the difmal tidings when he frowned:
Yet he was kind; or if fevere in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides prefage,
And even the ftory ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parfon owned his skill;

For even tho' vanquished, he could argue ftill;
While words of learned length, and thundering found
Amazed the gazing ruftics ranged around;

And ftill they gazed, and ftill the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

But paft is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the fign-poft caught the paffing eye.

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly ftoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The cheft contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With afpen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for fhew,
Ranged o'er the chimney, gliftened in a row.

Vain tranfitory fplendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering manfion from its fall! Obfcure it finks, nor fhall 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 wood-man's ballad fhall prevail;
No more the smith his dufky brow fhall clear,
Relax his ponderous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer fhall be found

Careful to fee the mantling blifs

;

go round Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preft, Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the reft.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud difdain, Thefe fimple bleffings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the glofs of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The foul adopts, and owns their first born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolefted, unconfined:

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,