The man who lost his way between

Saint Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the Parson's wicket.
Back flew the bolt, of lissom lath;
Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle
Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle:
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlour steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Uprose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor;-
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the Vicarage or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rock to roses :
It slipped from politics to puns:

It passed from Mahomet to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep, For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way

Small treatises and smaller verses And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble lords and nurses;

True histories of last year's ghost,

Lines to a ringlet or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking;
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That, if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus: From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and quæ genus;

I used to singe his powdered wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:

The church is larger than before;
You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more;
And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat, you'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?--look down
And construe on the slab before you,
Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown,

Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.

W. M. PRAED.

14.

The Village Preacher.

NEAR Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his agèd breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat 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 glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

O. GOLDSMITH.

1 "Here lies interrèd William Brown,

What laurel worthy for his crown!"

15.

The Village Inn.

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 talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use;
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen-boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

16.

O. GOLDSMITH.

The Fallen Lime-tree.

OH, joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time.
Thou whose wavy shadows,

Long and long ago,

C

Screened our grey forefathers
From the noon-tide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touched with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets,
Wrapt in fairy dreams.

O tree of our fathers! O hallowed tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee!
Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,

As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate

Of thy fragrant breast?

But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts

Leafy and profound,

Full of dewy dimness,

Odour and soft sound;

But the gentle memories

Clinging all to thee,

When shall they be gathered

Round another tree?

O pride of our fathers! O hallowed tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

F. HEMANS.

17.

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath.

THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,

Such tents the Patriarchs loved!

O long unharmed

May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller'

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,