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Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain, The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'ds 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.

Pleased 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 ev'n 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 her new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured 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 struggling soul;

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Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faultering 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 ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to share the good inan's smile,
His ready smile a parent's warınth expressid,
Their welfare pleased him and their cares distress’d ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ser us thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
'Though round its breast 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 ev’n the story ran that he could gauge :
In arguing too, the parson own’d his skill,
For ev’n though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small 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 retired, Where village statesmen talk'd, with looks profound, And news, much older than their ale, went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door, The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day: The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilld the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

Vain transitory splendor! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!

round;

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 ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling

bliss

go Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 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, unconfined. 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, ev’n 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 ghore;

Hoards ev'n 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 product 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 neighboring 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 supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when those charms are past, (for charms are frail) When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms--a garden and a grave,

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