The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults, to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev❜n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies; Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd; But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee Full well the busy whisper circling round, In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, I. And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place: The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain |