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Winthrop Mackworth Pracd

THE VICAR

SOME years ago, ere time and taste Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket Was always shown across the green, And guided to the parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path Through clean-clipp'd rows of box and myrtle;

And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say,
"Our master knows you; you're ex-
pected."

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Bar

row.

Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reach'd his journey's end, And warm'd himself in court or college, He had not gain'd an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge; If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipp'd from politics to puns;

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud dissent the mortal terror;

And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablish'd truth or startled error, The Baptist found him far too deep, The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow

His sermon never said or show'd

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspir'd The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them,

For all who understood admir'd,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost;

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; And trifles to the Morning Post,

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking ; He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improv'd by burning.

And he was kind, and lov'd to sit

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter The clammy lips of fever smil'd

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus; From him I learn'd the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Que genus. I used to singe his powder'd wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack, the change! In vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled.
The church is larger than before,

You reach it by a carriage entry :
It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted for the gentry.

Sit in the vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose voice is
clear,

Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?

down,

Look

And construe on the slab before you : "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown,

Vir nullâ non donandus lauro."

THE NEWLY-WEDDED

Now the rite is duly done,
Now the word is spoken,

And the spell has made us one

Which may ne'er be broken; Rest we, dearest, in our home,

Roam we o'er the heather: We shall rest, and we shall roam, Shall we not? together.

From this hour the summer rose Sweeter breathes to charm us; From this hour the winter snows Lighter fall to harm us :

Fair or foul-on land' or sea Come the wind or weather, Best and worst, whate'er they be, We shall share together.

Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other:

We will call his anger play,

Deem his dart a feather, When we meet him on our way Hand in hand together.

Charles Hartley Langhorne

THEOCRITUS

THEOCRITUS! Theocritus! ah, thou hadst pleasant dreams

Of the crystal spring Burinna, and the
Haleus' murmuring streams;
Of Physcus, and Neaethus, and fair Are-
thusa's fount,

Of Lacinion's beetling crag, and Latymnus' woody mount;

Of the fretted rocks and antres hoar that

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And the saucy girl Eunica, and sweet Chloe kind and fair;

And of those highly favor'd ones, Endymion and Adonis,

Loved by Selena the divine, and the beauteous Dionis ;

Of the silky-hair'd caprella, and the gentle lowing kine

Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant dreams were thine!

Of the spring time, and the summer, and the zephyr's balmy breeze;

Of the dainty flowers, and waving elms, and the yellow humming bees; Of the rustling poplar and the oak, the tamarisk and the beech,

The dog-rose and anemone, -thou hadst a dream of each!

Of the galingale and hyacinth, and the lily's snowy hue,

The couch-grass, and green maiden-hair, and celandine pale blue, The gold-bedropt cassidony, the fern, and sweet woodbine

Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant And of Zeus the mighty centre of Olympus

dreams were thine!

Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the good green tree,

The poppies and the spikes of corn, the shouting and the glee

Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the girls so gay and neat,

And the dance they lead around the tree with ever twinkling feet;

And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the aching brow,

And reach and pluck the damson down from the overladen bough,

And munch the roasted bean at ease, and quaff the Ptelean wine Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant dreams were thine!

And higher dreams were thine to dreamof Heracles the brave,

And Polydeukes good at need, and Castor strong to save ;

Of Dionysius and the woe he wrought the Theban king;

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