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-The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.
-My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep.
The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, tered the Lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bed side, and independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain, in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did-how he had rested in the night—what was his complaint--where was his pain -and what he could do to help him? And without giving him time to answer any one of these inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him.
-You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, to my house-and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter--and we'll have an apothecary-and the corporal shall be your nurse-and I'll be your servant, Le Fever.
There was a frankness in my uncle Toby--not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it-which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood and spirit of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back-the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face-then cast a look upon his boy.
Nature instantly ebb'd again-the film returned to its place the pulse fluttered, stopped-went on--throbbedstopped again-moved-stopped-shall I go on ?-No.
I.-The Shepherd and the Philosopher.
REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain.
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame,
Through all the country rais'd his name
A deep philosopher, (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought;
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd?
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown:
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners, weigh'd;
The shepherd modestly reply'd,
I ne'er the paths of learning try'd;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws, and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise;
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know:
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog, (the truest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, bis faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
IL-Ode to Leven Water.
ON Leven's banks while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood, In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout, in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd and nands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.
III.-Ode from the 19th Psalm.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And, nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid these radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease! Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please! How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm! The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting, lent its turn to play,
And all the village train from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd:
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And slights of arts and feats of strength went round
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd:
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place:
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below.
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung;
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
V.-The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every Body
LEST men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.
The trav'ller leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds,
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
"Makes e'en his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never seems absurd;
The flatter'd always take your word;
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust;
Hyperboles, though e'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.
So very like a painter drew,
That ev'ry eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, that life itself was there;
No flatt'ry with his colours laid,
To bloom restor'd the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength;
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length,
His honest pencil touch'd with truth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.