"Comes flying forth from aile to aile about, (1) "Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out.” (2) These were to him essentials; all things new He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue; To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,
Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told.
Habit with him was all the test of truth,
“It must be right: I've done it from my youth.” Questions he answer'd in as brief a way,
Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd, 'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd, Circles in water, as they wider flow,
The less conspicuous in their progress grow,
And when at last they touch upon the shore,
Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.
His love, like that last circle, all embraced,
But with effect that never could be traced. (3)
Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him be
Proclaim his life t'have been entirely rest;
Free from all evils which disturb his mind,
Whom studies vex and controversies blind.
The rich approved,—of them in awe he stood;
The
poor admired,—they all believed him good;
(1) [“ On cherub and on cherubim
Full royally he rode,
And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad."]
["In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out."— MILTON.]
["Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads;
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace;
His country next; and next all human race.”—POPE.]
The old and serious of his habits spoke ;
The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke ;
Mothers approved a safe contented guest,
And daughters one who back'd each small request:
In him his flock found nothing to condemn ;
Him sectaries liked,- he never troubled them.
No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,
And all his passions sunk in early ease;
Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he enter'd in. (1)
ASK you what lands our Pastor tithes ? - Alas!
But few our acres, and but short our grass :
In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May roll the single cow or favourite steed;
Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,
His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green;
But these, our hilly heath and common wide
Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;
crops luxuriant in our borders stand,
For here we plough the ocean, not the land;
Still reason wills that we our Pastor pay,
And custom does it on a certain day:
(1) ["The Vicar is an admirable sketch of what must be very difficult to draw;-a good, easy man, with no character at all. His little, humble vanity; his constant care to offend no one; his mawkish and feeble gallantry, indolent good-nature, and love of gossiping and trifling—are all very exactly and very pleasingly delineated," JEFFREY.]
Much is the duty, small the legal due,
And this with grateful minds we keep in view;
Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,
Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;
Duty and love, and piety and pride,
Have each their force, and for the Priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;
All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,
Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he;—
Not grieved by years alone; though his appear
Dark and more dark; severer on severe :
Not in his need, and yet we all must grant
How painful 'tis for feeling Age to want:
Nor in his body's sufferings; yet we know
Where Time has plough'd, there Misery loves to sow;
But in the wearied mind, that all in vain
Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.
His Father saw his powers-"I'll give," quoth he, "My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be:" Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!
But all he had :— - he learn'd, and was undone !
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,
And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped. (1)
Oh! had he learn'd to make the wig he wears,
To throw the shuttle, or command the sheers,
Or the strong boar-skin for the saddle shaped,
What pangs, what terrors, had the Man escaped!]
He once had hope-Hope, ardent, lively, light;
His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:
Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,
Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note
At morn, at evening at his work was he,
And dream'd what his Euripides would be.
Then care began:-he loved, he woo'd, he wed;
Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed-
A curate's bed! then came the woful years;
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd'
With wants and woes-by daily cares perplex'd;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.
A kind physician, and without a fee,
Gave his opinion" Send her to the sea."
"Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send
"A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?
"No;
I must with her, in her need, repair
"To that new place; the poor lie every where;
"Some priest will pay me for my pious pains :"
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.
Behold his dwelling! this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view, though not from want, retires;
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;
All join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they aspire to earn ;
For the sick mother something they'd obtain,
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something they'd procure
To ease the burden they themselves endure.
Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.
Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,
And by himself an Author's pleasure feels :
Each line detains him; he omits not one,
And all the sorrows of his state are gone.—(1)
Alas! even then, in that delicious hour,
He feels his fortune, and laments its power.
Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage, Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,
Some surly message he has heard before,
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.
An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud;
The elder daughter meekly makes him way-
"I want my money, and I cannot stay:
"My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind; Go tell your father he must raise the wind:"
["There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,
Th' expedients and inventions, multiform,
To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win.
T'arrest the fleeting images that fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast-
Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought
With such address from themes of sad import,
That, lost in his own musings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire."— -COWPER]
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