She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, 141 And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;

Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

147

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;

He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain:

150

The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims

allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 Sat by the fire, and talked the night away, Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields

way,

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; 197 I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face; 200 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew: 'T was certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;

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