And thought he design'd our religion to alter,. When they saw the burnt-offering smoke at the altar. The bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and near, And oft roused the chaplain unwilling to prayer, No more to good sermons now summons the sinner, But blasphemous rings in-the country to dinner. When my good lord the bishop had heard the strange story, How the place was profaned that was built to G―'s glory; Full of zeal he cried out, "Oh how impious the deed, "To cram Christians with pudding, instead of the " creed !" Then away to the grove hied the church's protector, Resolving to give his lay brother a lecture; But he scarce had begun, when he saw placed before 'em, A haunch piping hot from the sanctum sanctorum. "Truth!" quoth he, " I find nò great sin in the plan, "What was useless to Gd to make useful to man: "Besides, 'tis a true Christian duty, we read, "The poor and the hungry with good things to feed." Then again on the walls he bestow'd consecration, But reserved the full rights of a free visitation : Thus, 'tis still the Lord's house-only varied the treat, Now, there's meat without grace-where was grace without meat. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ireland, 1729,-1774. Goldsmith's career began in misfortunes, and the greater part of his life was overshadowed by poverty. A simple man in the affairs of the world, his imprudences brought with them the meed of vices. But even in indigence he was dear to those who know how to honour talents; and his exquisite good nature attached to him even those who might have hated him for his wit. The TRAVELLER, and DESERTED VILLAGE will to many eyes present serious truths, to many, the speculations only of a man of genius. He died in 1774, in the possession of such honours as the friendship of men, high in rank, and abilities could bestow upon him. From "The Traveller." * * * * FIRED at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, True to imagined right above controul, While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, All claims that bind, and sweeten life unknown; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd, die. From "The Deserted Village." ILL fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay, |