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Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's
smile.

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,
There, in his noisy mansion skilled 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 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 busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if severe 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 cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre-

sage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished, 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 should carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

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 pro

found,

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,
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 chilled the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

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Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,

That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their
last,

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain,
For seats like these beyond the western main ;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep!
The good old sire, the first prepared to go,
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints, the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a
tear,

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
While her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.

Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band! Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

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Goldsmith.

THE BLIND BOY.

O say what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

Cibber.

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