The Borough | Page 8

and long drawn out."
These were to him essentials; all things new
He deemed superfluous,
useless, or untrue:
To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,
Here the fire
kindled, and the woe was told.
Habit with him was all the test of truth:
"It must be right: I've done it
from my youth."
Questions he answer'd in as brief a way:
"It must
be wrong--it was of yesterday."
Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd,
'Twas but by wishes
or by words expressed.
Circles in water, as they wider flow,
The
less conspicuous in their progress grow,
And when at last they touch
upon the shore,
Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.
His
love, like that last circle, all embraced,
But with effect that never
could be traced.
Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best,
Proclaim his life
t'have been entirely rest;
Free from all evils which disturb his mind

Whom studies vex and controversies blind.
The rich approved,--of them in awe he stood;
The poor
admired,--they all believed him good;
The old and serious of his
habits spoke;
The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;

Mothers approved a safe contented guest,
And daughters one who

back'd each small request;
In him his flock found nothing to condemn;

Him sectaries liked,--he never troubled them:
No trifles fail'd his
yielding mind to please,
And all his passions sunk in early ease;

Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he
entered in.
THE CURATE.
ASK you what lands our Pastor tithes?--Alas!
But few our acres, and
but short our grass:
In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May
roll the single cow or favourite steed;
Who, stable-fed, is here for
pleasure seen,
His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green;
But these,
our hilly heath and common wide
Yield a slight portion for the
parish-guide;
No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,
For here we
plough the ocean, not the land;
Still reason wills that we our Pastor
pay,
And custom does it on a certain day:
Much is the duty, small
the legal due,
And this with grateful minds we keep in view;
Each
makes his off'ring, some by habit led,
Some by the thought that all
men must be fed;
Duty and love, and piety and pride,
Have each
their force, and for the Priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for
whose fate they grieve;
All see him poor, but e'en the vulgar know

He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd you shall
but seldom see,
Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he; -
Not
grieved by years alone; though his appear
Dark and more dark;
severer on severe:
Not in his need,--and yet we all must grant
How
painful 'tis for feeling Age to want:
Nor in his body's sufferings; yet
we know
Where Time has ploughed, there Misery loves to sow;
But
in the wearied mind, that all in vain
Wars with distress, and struggles
with its pain.
His father saw his powers--"I give," quoth he,
"My first-born learning;
'twill a portion be:"
Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!
But all he

had: --he learn'd, and was undone!
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the
priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,
And
all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.
He once had hope--Hope,
ardent, lively, light;
His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:

Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,
Weigh'd the Greek page,
and added note on note.
At morn, at evening, at his work was he,

And dream'd what his Euripides would be.
Then care began: --he loved, he woo'd, he wed;
Hope cheer'd him still,
and Hymen bless'd his bed -
A curate's bed ! then came the woeful
years;
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown
feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd
With wants and woes--by daily cares
perplex'd;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding,
drooping, sickly, and afraid.
A kind physician, and without a fee,
Gave his opinion--"Send her to
the sea."
"Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send
A friendless
woman? Can I find a friend?
No; I must with her, in her need, repair

To that new place; the poor lie everywhere; -
Some priest will pay
me for my pious pains:" -
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.
Behold his dwelling! this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view,
though not from want, retires;
Where four fair daughters, and five
sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;
All
join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they
aspire to earn;
For the sick mother something they'd obtain,
To
soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something
they'd procure
To ease the burden they themselves endure.
Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a
proud distress;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved
to behold, but happy to approve.

Then from his care, his love, his grief, he steals,
And by himself an
Author's pleasure feels:
Each line detains him; he omits not one,

And all the sorrows of his state are gone. -
Alas! even then, in that