The Borough | Page 7

was, no man to offend;
No haughty virtues stirr'd
his peaceful mind;
Nor urged the Priest to leave the Flock behind;

He was his Master's Soldier, but not one
To lead an army of his
Martyrs on:
Fear was his ruling passion; yet was Love,
Of timid
kind, once known his heart to move;
It led his patient spirit where it
paid
Its languid offerings to a listening Maid:
She, with her
widow'd Mother, heard him speak,
And sought awhile to find what he
would seek:
Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,
And
paid the same attention to the two;
Meeting and parting without joy
or pain,
He seem'd to come that he might go again.

The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,
At length was
chill'd by his unmelting ice;
She found her tortoise held such sluggish
pace,
That she must turn and meet him in the chase:
This not
approving, she withdrew, till one
Came who appear'd with livelier
hope to run;
Who sought a readier way the heart to move,
Than by
faint dalliance of unfixing love.
Accuse me not that I approving paint
Impatient Hope or Love without
restraint;
Or think the Passions, a tumultuous throng,
Strong as they
are, ungovernably strong:
But is the laurel to the soldier due,
Who,
cautious, comes not into danger's view?
What worth has Virtue by
Desire untried,
When Nature's self enlists on Duty's side?
The married dame in vain assail'd the truth
And guarded bosom of the
Hebrew youth;
But with the daughter of the Priest of On
The love
was lawful, and the guard was gone;
But Joseph's fame had lessened
in our view,
Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.
Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,
As once rejecting what
his heart desired;
"I am escaped," he said, when none pursued;

When none attack'd him, "I am unsubdued;"
"Oh pleasing pangs of
love!" he sang again,
Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.
E'en
in his age would he address the young,
"I too have felt these fires, and
they are strong;"
But from the time he left his favourite maid,
To
ancient females his devoirs were paid:
And still they miss him after
Morning-prayer;
Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,
Where
kindred spirits in his praise agree,
A happy few, as mild and cool as
he;
The easy followers in the female train,
Led without love, and
captives without chain.
Ye Lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,
While the town small-talk
flows from lip to lip;
Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,

Kitchen cabals, and nursery-mishaps),

If the vast world may not some
scene produce,
Some state where your small talents might have use;


Within seraglios you might harmless move,
'Mid ranks of beauty,
and in haunts of love;
There from too daring man the treasures guard,

An easy duty, and its own reward;
Nature's soft substitutes, you
there might save
From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave.
But let applause be dealt in all we may,
Our Priest was cheerful, and
in season gay;
His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;
Easy
himself, he sought his neighbour's ease:
To a small garden with
delight he came,
And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;

These he presented, with a grace his own,
To his fair friends, and
made their beauties known,
Not without moral compliment; how they

"Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay.'
Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,
Yet had some useful
cunning from his youth;
A cunning never to dishonour lent,
And
rather for defence than conquest meant;
'Twas fear of power, with
some desire to rise,
But not enough to make him enemies;
He ever
aim'd to please; and to offend
Was ever cautious; for he sought a
friend;
Yet for the friendship never much would pay,
Content to
bow, be silent, and obey,
And by a soothing suff'rance find his way.
Fiddling and fishing were his arts: at times
He alter'd sermons, and he
aim'd at rhymes;
And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,
Oft he
amused with riddles and charades.
Mild were his doctrines, and not
one discourse
But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:
Kind his
opinions; he would not receive
An ill report, nor evil act believe;
"If
true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small
Have all mankind; yea,
sinners are we all."
If ever fretful thought disturb'd his breast,
If aught of gloom that
cheerful mind oppress'd,
It sprang from innovation; it was then
He
spake of mischief made by restless men:
Not by new doctrines: never
in his life

Would he attend to controversial strife;
For sects he cared
not; " They are not of us,
Nor need we, brethren, their concerns

discuss;
But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel;
Ills few
perceive, and none have skill to heal:
Not at the altar our young
brethren read
(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;
But at
their duty, in their desks they stand,
With naked surplice, lacking
hood and band:
Churches are now of holy song bereft,
And half our
ancient customs changed or left;
Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas
seen,
Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;
Mistaken choirs
refuse the solemn strain
Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain

Comes flying forth from aisle to aisle about,
Sweet links of
harmony