'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old;
That doublet fit, 't will keep thee from the cold:
How does my Sexton ?-What! the times are hard; 55
Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'
But most, his Reverence loved a mirthful jest;—
'Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou 'rt barely drest;
It's worn to the thread! but I have nappy beer;
Clap that within and see how they will wear!'
"Gay days were these; but they were quickly past:
When first he came, we found he could n't last:
A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)
Upset him quite:—but what's the gain of grief?
"Then came the Author-Rector; his delight
Was all in books; to read them or to write:
Women and men he strove alike to shun,
And hurried homeward when his tasks were done:
Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
For points of learning he reserved his head;
And when addressing either poor or rich,
He knew no better than his cassock which:
He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,
Erect by nature, but to bend inclined;
Not like a creeper falling to the ground,
Or meanly catching on the neighbours round :-
Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band,—
And kindly took them as they came to hand:
Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat,
As if he sought for dignity in that:
He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules:
Nor turn'd from gypsies, vagabonds, or fools;
It was his nature, but they thought it whim,
And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him:
of questions much he wrote, profound and dark,— 85
How spake the Serpent, and where stopp'd the Ark;
From what far land the Queen of Sheba came;
Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name;
He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield,
And Revelations, to the world, reveal'd.
He sleeps in the aisle,-but not a stone records
His name or fame, his actions or his words:
And truth, your Reverence, when I look around,
And mark the tombs in our sepulcral ground,
(Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt,) 95
I'd join the party who repose without.
Such was his end; and mine approaches fast;
I've seen my best of preachers,—and my last."
He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said,
Civil but sly:-'And is old Dibble dead?'
Yes! he is gone: And We are going all; Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall;Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come, Then bear the new-made Christian to its home; A few short years and we behold him stand, To ask a blessing with his Bride in hand: A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear
His widow weeping at her husband's bier:-
Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take
Their names: thus parents shall the child forsake; 110
Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel,
By love or law compell'd their vows to seal,
Ere I again, or one like me explore,
These simple Annals of the Village Poor.
THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT.
LET me not have this gloomy view,
About my room, around my bed;
But morning roses wet with dew,
To cool my burning brows instead.
As flowers that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirit shed,
And every day the sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
O! let the herbs I loved to rear
Give to my sense their perfumed breath;
Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know;
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below;
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,
Till, as the morning sun-beams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.
That is the grave to Lucy shown,
The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown,
Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,
There let my maiden form be laid, Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, Nor for new guest that bed be made. There will the lark,-the lamb, in sport, In air,―on earth,—securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,
As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the church-yard ground,
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey;
I will not have the bell proclaim
When those sad marriage rites begin,
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.
Say not, it is beneath my care;
I cannot these cold truths allow;
These thoughts may not afflict me there,
But, O! they vex and teaze me now.
Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,
That man a maiden's grave may trace;
But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place.
O! take me from a world I hate,
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,
For only generous souls design'd,
And not a man to meet us there.
THOUGH short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees,
Which made that shorten'd span one long disease,
Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For mild, redeeming virtues, faith and hope:
Meek resignation; pious charity:
And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare,
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fix'd on heaven thine unreverted eye!
O! mark'd from birth, and nurtured for the skies!
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise!
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure!
Simple as unwean'd infancy and pure!
Pure from all stain! (save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath wash'd away!)
By mortal sufferings now no more opprest,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I, reversed our nature's kindlier doom,
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.
FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."
BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
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