No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis close, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields. were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; 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, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; And even the story ran that he could gauge; still; While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head so 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 talked with looks profound, And news, much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace, The parlour-splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, D The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, * * * * * Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; And took a long farewell, and wished in vain, ! |