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The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields

were won.

Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd

to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

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.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg’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 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, Aud fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran :

cares

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

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; In arguing too the parson own'd his skill, For, e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring

sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang’d around, And still they gaz'd, 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 triumph’d, is forgot.

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. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour-splendours of that festive place ; The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door: The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures 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 flowers, and fennel gay,

round;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,) Rang’d o'er the chimney, glisten’d in a row.

Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks, 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 lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

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 gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first - born

sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd: But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ?

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; Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish, abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride, Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken cloth, Has robb’d the neighbouring fields of half their

growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies ; While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

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,

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