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From the full store, and to the pocket sent,
But held a moment-and then down it went.

The priest read on, on walk'd the man afraid,
Till a gold offering in the plate was laid;
Trembling he took it, for a moment stoppid,
Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;
Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,
Lost and bewilder'd, thought not of the bran;
But all were silent, all on things intent
Of high concern, none ear to money lent;
So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,
And gain’d the purposed sum and one piece more.
Practice makes perfect ;-when the month came

round,
He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound;
But yet, when last of all th'assembled flock,
He ate and drank,– it gave th' electric shock:
Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,
Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;
But custom soothed him-ere a single year
All this was done without restraint or fear :
Cool and collected, easy and composed,
He was correct till all the service closed;
Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,
Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by.

Want will complain : some widows had express'd A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;

The rest described with like regret their dole,
And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole;
When all agreed some evil must be done,
Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.

Our easy vicar cut the matter short;
He would not listen to such vile report.

All were not thus—there govern'd in that year A stern stout churl, an angry overseer; A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most serere : Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk, Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark, Save the disgrace, “and that, my friends," said he, “ Will I avenge, whenever time may

be." And now, alas ! 'twas time;—from man to man Doubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran.

With angry spirit and with sly intent, This parish-ruler to the altar went; A private mark he fix'd on shillings three, And but one mark could in the money see; Besides, in peering round, he chanced to note A sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat: All doubt was over :—when the flock were bless'd, In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd.

Foul deeds are here!” and saying this, he took The clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook: His pocket then was emptied on the place; All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:

He fell, he fainted, not a groan, a look,
Escaped the culprit; 'twas a final stroke-
A death-wound never to be heal'd—a fall
That all had witness'd, and amazed were all.

As he recover'd, to his mind it came, I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame:" All the seduction now appear'd in view; Let me withdraw," he said, and he withdrew; No one withheld him, all in union cried, E'en the avenger,

“ We are satisfied:” For what has death in any form to give, Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?

He lived in freedom, but he hourly saw How much more fatal justice is than law;: He saw another in his office reign, And his mild master treat him with disdain ; He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled, The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled; The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof, “ And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof.”

In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd, Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid; Or to the restless sea and roaring wind Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin’d mind: On the broad beach, the silent summer-day, Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away;

Or where the river mingles with the sea,
Or on the mud-bank by the elder-tree,
Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he:
And when unable to forsake the town,
In the blind courts he sate desponding down-
Always alone; then feebly would he crawl
The church-way walk, and lean upon the wall:
Too ill for this, he lay beside the door,
Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor :
He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd
Their firm belief of his repentance vow'd;
They saw him then so ghastly and so thin,
That they exclaim'd, “ Is this the work of sin?"

“ Yes,” in his better moments, he replied, “ Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride;— “While yet untempted, I was safe and well ; “Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell: To be man's guide and glory I design'd, A rare example for our sinful kind; “ But now my weakness and my guilt I see, And am a warning-man, be warn’d by me!"

He said, and saw no more the human face; To a lone loft he went, his dying place, And, as the vicar of his state inquired, Turn'd to the wall and silently expired!

LETTER XX.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

ELLEN ORFORD.

Patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest.

Shakspeare. Lear.

• No charms she now can boast,"—'tis true,
But other charmers wither too:
" And she is old,”-the fact I know,
And old will other heroines grow;
But not like them has she been laid,
In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd;
Where naughty man and ghostly spright

Filld her pure mind with awe and dread,
Stalk'd round the room, put out the light,

And shook the curtains round her bed.
No cruel uncle kept her land,
No tyrant father forced her hand;

She had no vixen virgin-aunt,
Without whose aid she could not eat,
And yet who poison'd all her meat,

With gibe and sneer and taunt.
Yet of the heroine she'd a share,
She saved a lover from despair,
And granted all his wish, in spite
Of what she knew and felt was right:

But heroine then no more,
She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,
And humbly took the parish aid,

And dwelt among the poor.

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