The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even 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. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring 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 steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : Even children follow'd, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest; Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest: 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 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 cipher too; Land he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge; Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, 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 inspir'd, Where 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. The parlour-splendours of that festive place; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 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 shore; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 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, |