The Village Church-yard;—its low, plaintive 'Twas a profound seclusion that he chose; tone, A dirge-like melody For worth, and beauty modest as its own. More gaily now it sweeps By the small School-house, in the sunshine, bright: And o'er the pebbles leaps, Like happy hearts by holiday made light. May not its course express, In characters which they who run may read, 'Twas here when his rites sacerdotal were Together with articles small or immense, From mountains or planets, to atoms of sense: Nought was there so bulky, but there it could lay; A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail. A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear And nought so ethereal but there it would Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized stay; And nought so reluctant but in it must go; All which some examples more clearly will show. The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, Which retain'd all the wit that had ever been there; As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, As to bound like a ball, on the roof of the cell. Next time he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had madefor a weight; And tho' clad in armour from sandals to crown, The hero rose up, and the garment went down. A long row of alms houses, amply endow'd By a well-esteem'd pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropp'd into the chest ; Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bonnce. Again, he performed an experiment rare: A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, Climbed into his scale; in the other was laid The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed; When he found, with surprise that the whole of his brother tear. A lord and a lady went up at full sail, When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, Ten counsellors' wigs, full of powder and curl, All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence, Weigh'd less than some atoms of candour and sense ; A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, Than one good potato just washed from the dirt; Yet, not mountains of silver and gold would suffice, One pearl to outweigh,-'twas the "pearl of great price." At last the whole world was bowl'd in at the grate; With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight; When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof; Whence, balanced in air, it ascended on high, And sail'd up aloft-a balloon in the sky: While the scale with the soul in, so mightily fell, That it jerk'd the philosopher out of his cell. MORAL. DEAR reader, if e'er self-deception prevails, We pray you to try The Philosopher's scales: But if they are lost in the ruins around, Weigh'd less, by some pounds, than this bit Perhaps a good substitute thus may be "False colours on each object spread, THE TWO WEAVERS. MRS. MORE. As at their work two weaver's sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat; So high, a weaver scarce could eat. "What with my brats, and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard we work, so poor we fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. "How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heav'n is unjust, you must agree: Why all to him, and none to me? "In spite of what the Scripture teaches, "Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange; The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd." Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause, "See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there! A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Quoth Dick," my work is yet in bits, Says John," thou say'st the thing I mean, Is but a carpet inside out. "As when we view these shreds and ends, "No plan, no pattern, can we trace; "But when we reach the world of light, "What now seem random strokes, will there "Thou'rt right," "quoth Dick, "no more I'll grumble, That this world is so strange a jumble; THE BRAMBLE. BISHOP. WHILE wits through fiction's regions ram ble ; While bards for fame or profit scramble ; |