Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,
His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green:
But these, our hilly heath and common wide
Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;
No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,
For here we plough the ocean, not the land;
Still reason wills that we our pastor pay,
And custom does it on a certain day :
Much is the duty, small the legal due,
And this with grateful minds we keep in view;
Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,
Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;
Duty and love, and piety and pride,

Have each their force, and for the priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;
All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd shall but seldom see,

you

Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he;—

Not grieved by years alone; though his appear

Dark and more dark; severer on severe :
Not in his need, and yet we all must grant

How painful 'tis for feeling age to want:
Nor in his body's sufferings; yet we know

Where time has plough'd, there misery loves to sow;

But in the wearied mind, that all in vain

Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.

His father saw his powers-" I'll give," quoth he, "My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be:" Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!

But all he had :-he learn'd, and was undone !
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,
And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.

He once had hope-hope ardent, lively, light; His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright: Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote, Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note; At morn, at evening at his work was he,

And dream'd what his Euripides would be.

Then care began ;—he loved, he woo'd, he wed; Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed— A Curate's bed! then came the woful

years;
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd,
With wants and woes-by daily cares perplex'd;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.
A kind physician, and without a fee,
Gave his opinion-" Send her to the sea."

"Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send
"A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?
"No; I must with her, in her need, repair
"To that new place; the poor lie every
where ;-
"Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:"-
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.

Behold his dwelling; this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view, though not from want, retires;
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;
All join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they aspire to earn ;
For the sick mother something they'd obtain,
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something they'd procure,
To ease the burthen they themselves endure.
Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.

Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals, And by himself an author's pleasure feels; Each line detains him; he omits not one, And all the sorrows of his state are gone.— Alas! ev'n then, in that delicious hour, He feels his fortune, and laments its power.

Some tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,

Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt
page and
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,
Some surly message he has heard before,
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.

An angry dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and passing, raps aloud;
The elder daughter meekly makes him way—
"I want my money, and I cannot stay:

page;

My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;
"Go tell your father he must raise the wind:"
Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid
Says, "Sir! my father!" and then stops afraid:
Ev'n his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears
Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;
His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens-" Well! I'll wait awhile."
Pity! a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,

That are more harrowing than the want of bread;
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace!

And say that want and insolence shall cease?

"But why not publish ?"-those who know too well, Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell ; Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,

Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;

The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace;
Nor has he that confiding, easy way,

That might his learning and himself display;
But to his work he from the world retreats,
And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.
But see! the man himself; and sure I trace
Signs of new joy exulting in that face
O'er care that sleeps-we err, or we discern
Life in thy looks—the reason may we learn?

"Yes," he replied, "I'm happy, I confess, "To learn that some are pleased with happiness "Which others feel-there are who now combine "The worthiest natures in the best design,

"To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine: “ We who more keenly feel the world's contempt, "And from its miseries are the least exempt; "Now hope shall whisper to the wounded breast, “And grief, in soothing expectation, rest.

"Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel, "Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal; "Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make "The needy curse the benefits they take;

"Not with the idle vanity that knows

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Only a selfish joy when it bestows;

"Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,

"Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;