To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn- The sad historian of the pensive plain! Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden-flower grows wildThere, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear; Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place; 144 Unpractic'd he to fawn, or seek for power 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 show'd how fields were won. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all : 166 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood: at his control With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile: But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: 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 — 194 |