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And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, His heav'n commences ere the world be past. And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's close, The service past, around the pious man, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran: There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, Ev'n children follow'd, with endearing wile, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,

smile; The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest. The playful children just let loose from school: To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n. wind,

As some tall eliff, that lifts its awful form, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. Eternal sun shine settles on its head. But now the sounds of population fail,

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, But all the blooming flush of life is fled :

The village master taught his little school :
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,

A man severe he was, and stern to view,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; I knew him well, and every truant knew;
She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, Well had the boding tremblers learn’
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, The day's disasters in his morning face;
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,

Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn: At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
She only left of all the harmless train,

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, And still where many a garden-flow'r grows wild, The love he bore to learning was in fault; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village all declar'd how much he knew; The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too; A man he was to all the country dear,

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; For ev'n though vanquish'd he could argue still; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,

While words of learned length, and thund'ring By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;

sound, Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around; More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew His house was known to all the vagrant train, That one small head should carry all he knew. He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain; But past is all his fame. The very spot, The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Where many a time he triumph’d, is forgot. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; Near yonder thorn, that lists its head on high, The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

inspir'd, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were And news much older than their ale went round ;

Imagination fondly stoops to trace Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, The parlor splendors of that festive place ; And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, Careless their merits or their faults to scan, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; His pity gave ere charity began.

The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all : The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, And, as a bird each fond endearment tries With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, To tempt its new-fledgd offspring to the skies,

gay ; He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, Vain transitory splendors ! could not all And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall! The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, Thither no more the peasant shall repair And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. To sweet oblivion of his daily care ;

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ;

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ,

won.

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
The host himself no longer shall be found Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

display, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; These simple blessings of the lowly train; The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,

Sure these denote one universal joy! Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd.

Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, Where the poor houseless shivering female lies: With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, She, once perhaps, in village plenty blest, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy? Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue, fied,

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand

show'r, Between a splendid and a happy land.

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, When idly first, ambitious of the town, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; She left her wheel and robes of country brown. lioards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train And rich men flock from all the world around. Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Yet couut our gains. This wealth is but a name E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, That leares our useful product still the same. At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Vot so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreory scene, Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Where half the convex world intrudes between, Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, llas robb’d the neighb'ring fields of half their The various terrors of that horrid shore; growth;

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, Ilis seat, where solitary sports are seen,

And fiercely shed intolerable day; Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, Around the world each needful product flies : But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; For all the luxuries the world supplies :

Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around: In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, And savage men more murd’rous still than they ; Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, But when those charms are past, for charms are Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. frail,

Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene, When time advances, and when lovers fail, The cooling brook, the grassy-vesied green, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,

The breezy covert of the warbling grove, In all the glaring impotence of dress :

That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,

Good Heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that partIn nature's simplest charms at first array'd;

ing day, But verging to decline, its splendors rise,

That call'd them from their native walks away; Ils vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;

When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, While, scourg'd by famine, from the smiling land Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their The mournful peasant leads his humble band;

last, And while he sinks, without one arm to save, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain The country blooms—a garden and a grave! For seats like these beyond the western main;

Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside, And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, The good old sire the first prepard to go He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave

If to the city sped—What waits him there? His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, To see profusion that he must not share ;

The fond companion of his helpless years, To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;

And left a lover's for her father's arms.

“Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries,

“To tempt the dang'rous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom Mies

To lure thee to thy doom.

* Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good-will.

Then turn 10-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose. “ No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn : Taught by that Pow'r that pities me,

I learn to pity them :

“But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang’d are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own:
At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till, sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch’ring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes plac'd above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame, Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well; Farewell! and O! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of th'inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him that states, of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away; While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

“Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from Heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighboring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care; The wicket, op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their ev’ning rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smild ; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling’ring hours beguil'd.

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Our Will* shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavor; Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam,
And Dickt with his pepper shall heighten the sa- The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;

Would you ask for his merits ? alas! he had none; Our Cumberland's f sweet-bread its place shall What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his obtain ;

own. And Douglas v is pudding, substantial and plain : Here lies honest Richard,* whose fate I must Our Garrick's || a salad ; for in him we see

sigh at; Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:

Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am What spirits were his! what wit and what whim,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds** is lamb; Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
That Hickey 'stt a capon; and, by the same rule, Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick;
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
Till all my companions sink under the table; As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. The 'Terence of England, the mender of hearts ;

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth, A flattering painter, who made it his care
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with To draw men as they oughi lo be, not as they are.
mirth;

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, And Comedy wonders at being so fine:
At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout.
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ;
such,

And coxcombs, alike in their failings, alone,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his Say, was it that vainly directing his view
throat

To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, To persuade Tommy Townshendit to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, vote ;

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, fining,

The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : And thought of convincing, while they thought of Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, dining;

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reThough equal to all things, for all things unfit;

clines : Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; When satire and censure encircled his throne; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; I sear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own : And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. But now he is gone, and we want a detector, In short, 'twas his fate, unemployd, or in place, Our Doddst shall be pious, our Kenricks shall

lecture; To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Macpherson 5 write bombast, and call it a style ; Here lies honest William, whose heart was a Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; mint,

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was

over, in 't;

No countryman living their tricks to discover; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ;

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the

dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, * Mr. William Burke, Secretary to General Conway, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man: and Member for Bedwin.

As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; | Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of Grenada.

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line! 1 Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic The man had his failings—a dupe to his art. pieces.

§ Dr. Douglas, Bishop of Salisbury, who no less distin. guished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound * Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. .

retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other | David Garrick, Esq.

people. Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the † The Rev. Dr. Dodd. Irish bar.

| Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, ** Sir Joshua Reynolds.

under the title of The School of Shakspeare. # An eminent attorney.

$ James Macpherson, Esq. who, from the mere force of 11 Mr. T. Townshend, Member for Whitchurch. his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

sir,

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