The Borough | Page 6

could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he
sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's
message--"Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and
could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing
go!--if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake:

Yes! I must die--blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look

before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,

One last fond look--and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish, had more: I will not paint
The Lovers' meeting: she
beheld him faint, -
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her
terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half
succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were
interchanged, and hopes and views sublime:
To her he came to die,
and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him
she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the
aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer:
Apart
she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear:
Then as if breaking from a cloud,
she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the
anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to
think,
Yet said not so--"Perhaps he will not sink:"
A sudden
brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was
heard, -
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him
forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all
he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that
day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them
all:
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar
people--death has made them dear.
He named his Friend, but then his
hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;"
"I
go," he said: but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and
fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a
last,
A dying look of love,--and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved--an
offering of her love;

For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,

Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had

friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance--'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in
long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And
careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus
her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious
converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's
pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks
and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;

Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but to the
living live.
LETTER III.
And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an
inward bruise.
SHAKSPEARE, Henry IV, Part I
So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's
feet.
CHURCHILL
Much are the precious hours of youth misspent
In climbing learning's
rugged, steep ascent;
When to the top the bold adventurer's got,
He
reigns vain monarch of a barren spot;
While in the vale of ignorance
below,
Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth
pour in on every side,
And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.
CHURCHILL

THE VICAR--THE CURATE.

The lately departed Minister of the Borough--His soothing and
supplicatory Manners--His cool and timid Affections--No praise due to
such negative Virtue--Address to Characters of this kind--The Vicar's
employments--His Talents and moderate Ambition--His dislike of
Innovation--His mild but ineffectual Benevolence--A Summary of his
Character. Mode of paying the Borough-Minister--The Curate has no
such Resources--His Learning and Poverty--Erroneous Idea of his
Parent--His Feelings as a Husband and Father--the Dutiful Regard of
his numerous Family--His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted--No
Resource in the Press--Vulgar Insult--His Account of a Literary Society,
and a Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.
THE VICAR.
WHERE ends our chancel in a vaulted space,
Sleep the departed
Vicars of the place;
Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past -

But take a slight memorial of the last.
To what famed college we our Yicar owe,
To what fair county, let
historians show:
Few now remember when the mild young man,

Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;
Few live to speak of that soft
soothing look
He cast around, as he prepared his book;
It was a
kind of supplicating smile,
But nothing hopeless of applause the
while;
And when he finished, his corrected pride
Felt the desert,
and yet the praise denied.
Thus he his race began, and to the end

His constant care