The Borough | Page 8

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 delicious hour,?He feels his fortune, and laments its power.
Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,?Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and page;?Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,?Some surly message he has heard before,?Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.
An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,?Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud;?The elder daughter meekly makes him way -?"I want my money, and I cannot stay:?My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;?Go tell your father he must raise the wind:"?Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid?Says, "Sir! my father!"--and then stops afraid:?E'en his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears?Her voice with pity; he respects