For now the founds of population fail,
No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No bufy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
But all the bloomy flufh of life is fled.
All but yon widow'd folitary thing, at al
That feebly bends befides the plashy fpring;
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes fpread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn,
She only left of all the harmless train,
The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.
Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd And ftill where many a garden flow'r grows wild: There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe, The village preacher's modest mansion rofe. A man he was, to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ere had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place, Unskilful he to fawn, or feek for pow'r, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart hath learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rife. His houfe was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain, The long-remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whofe beard defcending fwept his aged breaft; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken foldier, kindly bade to ftay, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guetts, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their wo;
Careless their merits or their faults to fean,
His pity gave ere charity began..
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's fide But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all,
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its, new fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd,
The rev'rend champion ftood. At his control,
Defpair and anguifh fled the ftruggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last fault'ring accents whifper'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 fcoff, remain'd to pray.
'The service paft, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honeft rustic ran ;
Ev'n children follow d with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to fhare the good man's fmile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth expreft,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diftreft ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n,
But all his ferious thoughts had reft in heav'n.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm,
Tho' round its breaft the rolling clouds are fpread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.
Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way,
With bloffom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There in his noify manfion, skill'd to rule,
The village mafter taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and ev'ry truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace.
The day's difafters 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 bufy whifper circling round,
Convey'd the difmal tidings when he frown'd;
Yet he was kind, or if fevere in aught,
The love he bore to learning was his fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew,
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could meafure, terms and tides prefage,
And ev'n the ftory ran that he could
guage:
In arguing too, the parfon own'd his skill,
For e'en tho' vanquish'd, he could argue fill;
While words of learned length, and thund'ring found
Amaz'd the gazing ruftics rang'd around,
And ftill they gaz'd, and ftill the wonder grew,
That one fmall head could carry all he knew.
But paft is all his fame. The very pot
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the fign-poft caught the paffing eye,
Low lies that houfe where nut-brown draughts infpir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth and fmiling toil retir'd,
Where village ftatefmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly floops to trace,
The parlour fplendors of that feftive place;
The white-wafh'd wall, the nicely-fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that clink'd behind the door;
The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of draw'rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With afpen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for fhew, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain tranfitory fplendors! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring manfion from its fall!
Obfcure it finks, nor fhall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peafant fhall repair,
To fweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad fhall prevail;
No more the smith his dufky brow fhall clear,
Relax his pond'rous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer fhall be found,
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go
round;
Nor the coy-maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kifs the cup to pafs it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud difdain,
Thefe fimple bleffings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native, charm, than all the glofs of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The foul adopts and owns their first-born sway ;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolefted, unconfin'd,
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In thefe, ere trifler's half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleafure fickens into pain;
And ev'n while fashion's brighteft arts decoy,
The heart diftrufting afks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye ftatesmen who furvey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, Tis your's to judge how wide the limits stand Between a fplendid and a happy land.
Proud fwells the tide with loads of frighted ore,
And fhouting folly hails them from the fhore:
Hoards, ev'n beyond the mifer's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name,
That leaves our useful product ftill the fame.
Not fo the lofs. The man of wealth and pride,
Takes up a space that many poor fupply'd;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horfes, equipage and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth,
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth,
His feat where folitary fports are feen,
Indignant fpurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all
In barren fplendor feebly waits the fall.
As fome fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that drefs fupplies, Nor fhares with art the triumph of her eyes: But when those charms are past, for charms are frail. When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then fhines forth, folicitous to blefs, In all the glaring impotence of drefs. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, In nature's fimpleft charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its fplendors rife, Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprise; While fcourg'd by famine from the fmiling land, The mournful peafant leads his humble band; And while he finks, without one arm to fave, The country blooms—a garden; and a grave.
Where then, ah, where fhall poverty refide, To 'scape the preffure of contagious pride?
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