Then should the humble Clerk of Barton-Dean
An equal meed of praise with thy School-mistress gain.

Entering the village in a deep-worn way,

Hard by an aged oak, his dwelling stands;
The lowly roof is thatch, the walls are clay:
All rudely raised by his forefathers' hands:
Observe the homely hut as you pass by,
And pity the good man that lives so wretchedly.

Vulcanian artist here, with oily brow

And naked arm, he at his anvil plies,

What time Aurora in the east does glow,

And eke when Vesper gilds the western skies,

The bellows roar, the hammers loud resound,

And from the tortured mass the sparkles fly around.

Hither the truant school-boy frequent wends,
And slyly peeping o'er the hatch is seen

To note the bickering workman, while he bends
The steed's strong shoe, or forms the sickle keen.

Unthinking, little elf, what ills betide,

Of breech begalled sore, and cruel task beside,

A deep historian, well I wot, is he,

And many tomes of ancient lore has read, Of England's George, the flower of chivalry,

Of Merlin's Mirror, and the Brazen Head;

With hundred legends more, which to recite ..
Would tire the wisest nurse, and spend the longest night.

To Nature's Book he studiously applies,

And oft, consulted by the anxious swain, With wistful gaze reviews the vaulted skies,

And shews the signs of sure impending rain; Or thunder gathered in the fervid air,

Or if the harvest-month will be serene and fair.

The various phases of the moon he knows,

And whence her orb derives its silver sheen, From what strange cause the madding Heygre flows, By which the peasants oft endangered been,

As in their freighted barks they careless glide,
And view the inverted trees in Severn's crystal tide.

Returning late at eve from wake or fair,
Among a sort of poor unlettered swains,
He teaches them to name each brighter star,

And of the northern lights the cause explains; Recounts what comets have appear'd of old, Portending dearth, and war, and miseries manifold.

Around his bending shoulders graceful flow
His curling silver locks, the growth of years;
Supported by a staff he walketh slow,

And simple neatness in his mien appears : And every neighbour that perchance he meets, Or young or old be they, with courtesy he greets.

A goodly sight, I wot, it were to view

The decent Parish Clerk on Sabbath-day, Seated, beneath the Curate, in his pew,

Or, kneeling down with lifted hands to pray,

And ever and anon, with close of prayer,
He answereth, Amen! with sober solemn air.

Such times an ancient suit of black he wears,

Which from the Curate's wardrobe did descend;

Love to his Clerk the pious Curate bears,

Pities his wants, and wisheth to befriend :

But what, alas! can slender salary do,
Encumbered by a wife, and children not a few?

Through every season of the changing year,

His strict regard for Christian rites is seen, The holy church he decks with garlands fair,

Or birchen boughs, or yew for ever green;

On every pew a formal sprig is placed,

And with a spacious branch the pulpit's top is graced.

At Christmas tide, when every yeoman's hall

With ancient hospitality is blest,

Kind invitations he accepts from all,

To share the plenteous, mirth-abounding feast;

The Christmas feast imperfect would appear,

Except their good old guest, the Parish Clerk, was there.

Then, when the mellow beer goes gaily round,

And curls of smoke from lighted pipes aspire, When chearful carols through the room resound, And crackling logs augment the blazing fire, His honest heart with social joy o'erflows,

And many a merry tale he on his friends bestows.

When, smit with mutual love, the youth and maid
To weave the sacred nuptial knot agree,

Pleased he attends to lend his useful aid,

And see the rites perform'd with decency:

He gives the bride, and joins their trembling hands, While with the service-book the curate gravely stands.

Then, while the merry bells the steeple shake,
Ringing in honour of the happy pair,

To notes of gladness while the minstrels wake,
And lads and lasses the rich bride-cake share;