Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place:
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast:
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier kindly bade 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 werewon.
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 try'd 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 pain, by turns dismay'd, The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, 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 pluck'd 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, Tho' 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 cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presagé, And even the story ran that he could guage; In arguing too the parson own'd his skill, For even tho' vanquish'd, he could argue still! While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gaping 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 splendors of that festive place;
The white-wash'd 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 aspin boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,
With broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain, transitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hours 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 round;
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, Unenvy'd, 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 supply'd; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robb'd the neighb'ring 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 splendor 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, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise:

While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms-a garden and a grave.

Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is deny'd.

If to the city sped-What waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share ;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps
display,

There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way;
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here richly deckt, amid the gorgeous-train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no trouble e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts!-Ah! turn thine

eyes

Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village-plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn,
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour