40

THE COUNTRY PARSON.

Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage; Alas, how hurryingly the ebbing years They hasten to old age!

SOUTHEY.

THE COUNTRY PARSON.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose :
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wished 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,

THE COUNTRY PARSON.

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were

41

won.

Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,

And quite forget 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 e'en 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 her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved 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 ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

42

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;

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,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS LIBRARY.

But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:

WOLFE.

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS LIBRARY.

My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,

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THE PROSPECT.

My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I commune day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;

And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be;
And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

THE PROSPECT.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the
gay, the open scene,

SOUTHEY.