down;

To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose:

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my booklearn'd skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns
pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return-and die at home at last.

tread,

decline,

Retreats from care that never must be mine,

How blest is he who crowns in shades like these,

A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong tempta. tions try,

And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,

Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous

eep;

No curly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the
last,

His heaven commences ere the world be past!

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn,

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn;

She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,

The rev'rend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even 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 exprest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves

trace,

The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;

Yet he was kind, or if severe in ought, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew ;

'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge:

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still;

While words of learned length, and

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 inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toll retired,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

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;

Here, while the courtier glitters in bro cade,

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here while the proud their long-draw pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the

way;