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The ruined spendthrift

, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed :
The broken soldier, kindly bade* to stay,
Satet by his fire and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to g!ow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo;
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 leaned to virtue's side :
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all :
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, returned to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran:
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed :
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.

* Pron, bad,


Pron, sat.


Parody* on the preceding.-BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

Near where yon brook flows babbling through the dell, From whose green bank those upland meadows swell, See where the rector's splendid mansion stands, Embosomed deep in new-enclosed lands, Lands wrested from the indigent and poor, Because, forsooth, he holds the village care.t A man is he whom all his neighbours fear, Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe; And starving, with a thousand pounds a year.

'Midst crowds and sports he passed his youthful prime; Retirement, had, with him, been deemed a crime: When the young blood danced joc'und through his veins, 'Tis said his sacred stolet received some stains. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, By friends, or fawning, he lays claiin to power : For, three fat livings own his goodly sway; Two wretched curates starve upon


Celestial Charity, that heavenly guest,
Could ne'er find entrance to his close-locked breast
The common vagrants pass his well-known gate
With terror's hasty step, and looks of hate ;
For well they know the suffering poor he mocks;
Their wants are promised Bridewellll or the stocks.
The soldier, seamed with honourable scars,
The sailor, hasting from his country's wars,
In vain to him may tell their wo-fraught tale ;
Their wounds, their eloquence, may not prevail :
Though, by their valour, he in peace remains,
He never gives a mite, to soothe the wanderers' pains.

Thus to depress the wretched is his pride;
His seeming virtues are to vice allied ;
Backward to duty, hateful to his ears
Sound the church bells to summon him to prayers ;

* Parody ;-A kind of writing, in which the words of an author, or his. thoughts, are taken, and, by a slight change, adapted to some other subjuct. + Cure ;—The office or employment of a curate or clergyman,

Stole ;--A long robe worn by the clergy in England. Il Bridewell ;-A house of correction.

And, like the wolf that stole into the fold,
And slew the sheep, in woolly vestments rolled,
Still bent on gain, he watcheth night and day,
To rend and make God's heritage his prey.

Called to the bed where parting life is laid,
With what reluctance is the call obeyed !
A few brief prayers in haste he mutters o'er,
For time is precious, and the sick man poor ;
Fancy, even now, depictures to his eye
Some neighbour's pigs forth-issuing from the sty,
Whose wicked snouts his new-formed banks uproot
Close in the ditch, and lop the hawthorn shoot.
Full many a luckless hog, in morning round,
He drives, deep grunting, to the starving pound.

When in the church, that venerable place, A sullen frown o'erspreads his haughty face: A preacher's frown conviction should impart, But oft his smile should cheer the drooping heart. He blunders through the prayers with hasty will, A school-boy would be whipped who read so ill, Then mounts the pulpit with a haughty mien, Where more of pride than godliness is seen; Some fifteen minutes his discourse will last, And thus the business of the week is past.

The service o'er, no friendly rustics run To shake his hand; his steps the children shun, None for advice or comfort round him press, Their joys would charm not, nor their cares distress; To notice them they know he's all too proud; His liveried lackeys spurn the village crowd. When for the mourner heaved his breast the sigh ! When did compassion trickle from his eye! Careless is he if weal or wo betide, If dues and tithes be punctually supplied.

Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath given To be the guide of humble souls to heaven. To preach of heaven he'll sometimes condescend, But all his views and wishes earthward tend. Like a tall guide-post, towering o'er the way, Whose lettered arms the traveller's route display, Fixed to one spot, it stands upon the down, Its hand still pointing to the distant town.


Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize.-GOLDSMITH

Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize; Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,

And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please

With manner wonderous winning; And never followed wicked ways

Unless when she was sinning

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Let us lament, in sorrow sore ;

For Kent-Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more

She had not died to-day.


The sick Man and the Angel.-GAY.

“Is there no hope ?” the sick man said: The silent doctor shook his head; And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow. When thus the man, with gasping breath : “ I feel the chilling hand of death. Since I must bid the world adieu, Let me my former life review. I grant my bargains were well made; But all men over-reach in trade. Tis self-defence in each profession: Sure self-defence is no transgression.

“The little portion in my hands, By good security on lands, Is well increased. If, unawares, My justice to myself and heirs Hath let my debtor rot in jail, For want of good sufficient bail ; If I, by writ, or bond, or deed, Reduced a family to need; My will hath made the world amends : My hope on charity depends. When I am numbered with the dead, And all my pious gifts are read, By heaven and earth! 'twill then be known, My charities were amply shown.”

An Angel came. "Ah! friend,” he cried "No more in flattering, hopes confide: Can thy good deeds, in former times, Outweigh the balance of thy crimes What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days ? A pious action's in thy power: Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now, while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is sincere : This instant give a hundred pound: Your neighbours want, and you abound."

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