Imatges de pÓgina

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 failing: lean’d to virtue's fide ;
But in his duty prompt at ev'ry 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 fedg'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 forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The rev'rend champion itood. "At his control,

Despair and anguish Aed the struggling foul ;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meck 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.
T'he service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honett rustic ran ;
Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready finile a parent's warmth expreit,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their carès diftreft ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv’n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n.
As fume tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho'round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal funshine fettles on its head.

Befide yon itraggling fence that ikirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village maflor taught his little school :

A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and ev'ry truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace. The day's difafters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a jøke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Consey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was his 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 prefage, And ev'n the story ran that he could guage : In arguing too, the parson own'd his ikili, For e'en tho' vanquil'd, he could argue fill; While words of learned length, and thund'rir.g found Amaz'd the gazing ruftice rangd around, And fill they gaz'd, and fill 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 fign-poft caught the pafling eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,

grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'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 fplendors of that feflive place ;
The white-wallı'd wall, the nicely-fanded Aoor,
The varnish'd clock that clink'd behind the door ;
The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of draw'rs by day ;
The pi&tures 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 aspen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay,
While broken tea cups, wisely kept for shew,
Rang’d o'er the chimney, gliften' in a row.

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring manfion from its fall!
Obscure it finks, 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 Ican to hear :
The hoft himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to see the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy-maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kiss the cup to pafs it to the rest.

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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 glofs of art ;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The soul adopts and owns their first-born (way;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolefted, unconfin'd,
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere trifler's half their with obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain ;
And er'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrutting asks it this be joy.

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, Tis your's to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud (wells the tide with loads of frighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from the shore :
Hoards, ev'n beyond the mifer's wish abound,
And rich men dock 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 supply'd ;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds ;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken sloth,
Has robb’d the neighb’ring fields of half their growth,
His seat where folitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ;
Around the world cach 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.

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As fome fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her But when those charms are part, 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 Juxury betray’d, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its {plendors rise, Its vistas Atrike, its palaces surprise; While scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he finks, without one arm to fave, The country blooms—a garden ; and a grave.

Where then, ah, where shall poverty refide, To 'scape the preffure of contagious pride?

If to some common's fenceless limits ftray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fencelefs fields the sons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is deny'd.

If to the city fped - What waits him there? To fee profufion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'a To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To lee each joy the song of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's wo. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the fickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles ere annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless Thiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty bleft, Has wept at tales of innocence diftreft ; Her modeft looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all: her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door le lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold and thrinking from the show'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Evin now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

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