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Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,

The rev'rend chaiapion 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, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth ex. prest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

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

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Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace,

The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;

Yet he was kind, or if severe in ought, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew ;

"Twas certain he could write, and cypher

too ;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge :

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still;

While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame. The very

spot

Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

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And news much older than their ale went Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe.

round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;

The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the

way;

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy !

Sure these denote one universal joy !— Are these thy serious thoughts? ah, turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.

She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,

Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking

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Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,

And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget *o sing,

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxu. riance crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;

Where at each step the stranger fears to

wake

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,

And savage men more murderous still than they ;

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Ming'ling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

Far different these from every former

scene,

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Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural Virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,
And kind connubial Tenderness, are
there :

And Piety with wishes placed above,
And steady Loyalty and faithful Love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest
maid,

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest

fame;

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