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To pious James he then his prayer ad-Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, Good-lack, quoth James, thy sorrows pierce For thrice they sound, with pausing space, my breast; three times.

And, had I wealth, as have my brethren Go; of my sexton seek, Whose days are

twain,

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Then the gay Niece the seeming pauper press'd:

Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd:

Akin to thine is this declining frame,
And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name.
Avaunt! begone! the courteous maiden said,
Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead:
I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks!
Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!
My gentle niece! he said—and sought the
wood.-

I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!
Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try
Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs
the lie;

Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal,

Nor whine out woes, thine own right-hand can heal: And while that hand is thine and thine a leg, Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg.Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,

Old Roger said :-thy words are brave and true;

Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoun

drel-boys,

And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys.Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share, With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care; We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap, And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep.Such was their life: but when the woodman died,

His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied. In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door, And dying, built a refuge for the poor; With this restriction: That no Cuff should

share

sped?— What! he, himself!—and is old Dibble dead? His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay'd, And rectors five to one close vault convey'd :

But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,
And gain a mournful subject for my Muse:
His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore,
And kindly add, — Heaven grant, I lose no
more!

Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance
Appear'd at variance with his complaisance:
For, as he told their fate and varying worth,
He archly look'd-I yet may bear thee forth.
When first-(he so began)-my trade I plied,
Good master Addle was the parish-guide;
His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear,
His stride majestic, and his frown severe;
A noble pillar of the church he stood,
Adorn'd with college-gown and parish-hood:
Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about,
He fill'd the sevenfold surplice fairly out!
But in his pulpit, wearied down with prayer,
He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair;
For while the anthem swell'd, and when it
ceased,

Th' expecting people view'd their slumbering priest:

Who, dozing, died.—Our Parson Peele was next;

I will not spare you, was his favourite text; Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound;

Ev'n me he mulct for my poor rood of ground; Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech, What should I do, quoth he, but what I preach? His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store)

Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor;
His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke;
His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke:
But though so young and blest with spirits
high,

He died as grave as any judge could die:
The strong attack subdued his lively
powers,-
His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear

ours.

Then were there golden times the village round; In his abundance all appear'd t' abound; One meal, or shelter for one moment there. Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread, E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed; Who wish'd, and hoped,—and thought a man so kind A way to Heaven, though not their own. might find; To them, to all, he was polite and free, Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to

My record ends: — But hark! e'en now I hear The bell of death, and know not whose to fear:

Our farmers all and all our hinds were well; In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell:

me:

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Gay days were these; but they were quickly past:

When first he came, we found he could not last: A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf) Upset him quite-but what's the gain of grief?

Then came the Author-Rector: his delight
Was all in books; to read them, or to write:
Women and men he strove alike to shun,
And hurried homeward when his tasks were
done :

Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
For points of learning he reserved his head;
And when addressing either poor or rich,
He knew no better than his cassock which:
He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,
Erect by nature, but to bend inclined;
Not like a creeper falling to the ground,
Or meanly catching on the neighbours
round :-

Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band,—
And kindly took them as they came to hand:
Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat,
As if he sought for dignity in that:
He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious
rules:

Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools;
It was his nature, but they thought it whim,
And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from
him:

of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark,How spake the Serpent, and where stopp'd the Ark;

From what far land the Queen of Sheba came; Who Salem's priest, and what his father's

name;

He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield,

And Revelations, to the world, reveal'd.
He sleeps i' the aisle,--but not a stone records
His name or fame, his actions or his words:
And truth, your Reverence, when I look
around,

And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground, (Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt)

I'd join the party who repose without.
Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and,
in truth,
He was a sober and a comely youth;

He blush'd in meekness as a modest man, And gain'd attention ere his task began; When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof, But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough. Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd, Advised and censured, flatter'd, and prevail'd.

Then did he much his sober hearers vex,
Confound the simple, and the sad perplex;
To a new style his Reverence rashly took;
Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd
his look;

Above, below, on either side, he gazed,
Amazing all, and most himself amazed:
No more he read his preachments pure and
plain,

But launch'd outright and rose and sank again:

At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept, And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept,

That our best sleepers started as they slept. Conviction comes like lightning, he would

cry;

In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly; "Tis like the rushing of the mighty wind, Unseen its progress, but its power you find; It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes; His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes; The proud, learn'd man, and him who loves to know

How and from whence these gusts of grace will blow,

It shuns, — but sinners in their way impedes, And sots and harlots visits in their deeds: Of faith and penance it supplies the place; Assures the vilest that they live by grace, And, without running, makes them win the

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Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught;

And here conviction, there confusion wrought; When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue, And all the rose to one small spot withdrew: They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fiery flush, More fix'd and deeper than the maiden-blush; His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed, And lab'ring lungs the length'ning speech opposed.

No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs

Upheld a body of the smaller size;
But down he sank upon his dying bed,
And gloomy crotchets fill'd his wandering
head.-

Spite of my faith, all-saving faith, he cried,
I fear of worldly works the wicked pride;
Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind,
The good I've wrought still rankles in my
mind;

My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done,
My moral-rags defile me every one;
It should not be:- what sayst thou? tell
me, Ralph.
Quoth I: Your Reverence, I believe, you're
safe;

Your faith's your prop, nor have you pass'd | Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come, Then bear the new-made Christian to its home;

such time

In life's good-works as swell them to crime.

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A few short years and we behold him stand, To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand: A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier :Thus,as the months succeed, shall infants take Their names; thus parents shall the child forsake;

Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel,

By love or law compell'd their vows to seal,
Ere I again, or one like me, explore
These simple Annals of the VILLAGE-POOR.

THE LIBRAR Y.

WHEN the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,

Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;

When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian
bcam,

Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream;

For when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breathes a purer air:
No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering

seas,

He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;

On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides
The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus in the calms of life we only see
A steadier image of our misery;
But lively gales and gently-clouded skies
Disperse the sad reflections as they risc;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs em-
ploy'd,
Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief.
Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial cares;

Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined,

By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind, And steal our grief away and leave their own behind;

A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This books can do ;-nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they

chastise,

Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects, what they show to kings.

Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene; Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold! Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,

And mental physic the diseased in mind; See here the balms that passion's wounds

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Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, | Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind
And view composed this silent multitude:— Through history's mazes, and the turnings
Silent they are, but, though deprived of
find;

sound,

Here all the living languages abound:
Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught
mankind

To stamp a lasting image of the mind!— Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,

Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend:

Or whether, led by science, ye retire,
Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;
Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,
And crowns your placid brows with living
flowers;

Or godlike wisdom teaches you to show
The noblest road to happiness below;
Or men and manners prompt the easy page
To mark the flying follies of the age:
Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;
Inform the head and rectify the heart.

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand, And mighty folios first, a lordly band;

tain,

'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep, | Then quartos their well-order'd ranks main-
When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,
When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,
And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest,
Why then denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common
care?

Because the hope is his, that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;

That after-ages may repeat his praise,
And fame's fair meed be his, for length of
days.
Delightful prospect! when we leave behind
A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind!
Which, born and nursed through many an
anxious day,

Shall all our labour, all our care repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,
Not all the children of a vigorous mind;
But where the wisest should alone preside,
The weak would rule us, and the blind would
guide;

Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show

The poor and troubled source from which they flow:

Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,

And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. But though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves This seat serene,and virtue's self approves :Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; The curious here, to feed a craving mind; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favouring muse. With awe around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead:The dead!—methinks a thousand tongues reply; These are the tombs of such as cannot die! Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time. Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above, Fach, in his sphere, the literary Jove; And ye the common people of these skies, A humbler crowd of nameless deities ;

And light octavos fill a spacious plain :
See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,
A humbler band of duodecimos;
While undistinguish'd trifles swell the scene,
The last new play and fritter'd magazine.
Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the
great,

In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous
state;
Heavy and huge, they fill the world with
dread,

Are much admired, and are but little read: The commons next, a middle rank, are found; Professions fruitful pour their offspring round;

Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd,

And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;

For these the manners, nay the mind express; That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;

Those ample clasps, of solid metal made; The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many

an age;

The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;
On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,
Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold;
These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,
A painful candidate for lasting fame:
No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk
In the deep bosom of that weighty work;
No playful thoughts degrade the solemn
style,

Nor one light sentence claims a transient

smile.

Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,
And slumber out their immortality:
They had their day, when, after all his toil,
His morning-study, and his midnight-oil,
At length an author's ONE great work ap-
pear'd,

By patient hope and length of days endear'd :
Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;
Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;

ous race,

Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift, | Not truths like these inspired that numer-
And ladies read the work they could not lift.
Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of Whose pious labours fill this ample space;
But questions nice, where doubt on doubt
arose,

fools,

Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;
From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat
she goes,
And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.
For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient mode
Lie all neglected like the Birth-day-Ode;
Ah! needless now this weight of massy
chain;

Safe in themselves the once-loved works

remain ;

Awaked to war the long-contending foes.
For dubious meanings learn'd polemics
strove,

And wars on faith prevented works of love;
The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,
And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world:-
Dull though impatient, peevish though
devout,

With wit disgusting and despised without;
Saints in design, in execution men,

No readers now invade their still retreat,
None try to steal them from their parent-Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their

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pen.

Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight, Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight; Spirits who prompted every damning page, With pontiff-pride and still-increasing rage: Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,

And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!

They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep,

Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners
sheep;

Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,
Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;
And each, like Jonas, is displeased if God
Repent his anger, or withhold his rod.
But here the dormant fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she
fought;

Here all the rage of controversy ends,
And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends:
An Athanasian here, in deep repose,
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide,
And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,
And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.
Great authors, for the church's glory fired,
Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,
Lie: "Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of
Grace."

Against her foes Religion well defends
Her sacred truths, but often fears her
friends;

If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal
she dreads.
And their hearts' weakness, who have
soundest heads:
But most she fears the controversial pen,
The holy strife of disputations men;
Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page
explore,

Only to fight against its precepts more.
Near to these seats behold yon slender frames,
All closely fill'd and mark'd with modera

names;

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