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THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



The ruined spendthrift, now no loe o er proud, 



Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 



The broken soldier kindly bade to stay, 



Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 



Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 



Shoulder 'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 



Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 



And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 



Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 



His pity gave ere charity began. 



Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 



And even his failings leaned to virtue's side; 



But in his duty, prompt at every call, 



He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all. 



And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 



To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 



He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 



Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 



Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 

 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 

 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 

 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 

 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 

 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 



At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 

 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

 The service past, around the pious man, 

 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

 E'en children followed with endearing wile, 

 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 

 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 

 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ; 

 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 

 But nil his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 

 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 

 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



Beside yon straggling fence, that skirts the 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 ; 

 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 



Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 



The day's disasters in his morning face ; 



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, 



The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 



The village all declared how much he knew, 



'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 



Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 



And even the story ran, that he could guage : 



In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, 



For even though vanquished he could argue still ; 



While words of learned strength, and thundering sound, 



Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 



And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 



That one small head ronld carry all he knew. 



But past is all his fame. The very spot 



Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 



Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 

 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 

 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 

 Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 

 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 

 And news much older than their ale went round. 

 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 

 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 

 The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 

 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 

 The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 

 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 

 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 

 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 

 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 

 With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay j 

 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 

 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in 'a row. 



Vain transitory splendour ! could not all 

 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 

 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 

 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 

 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 

 To sweet oblivion >! 'las laily care ; 

 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 

 No more the woodman's ballad, shall prevail ; 



