True priests, he said, and preachers of the word, Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord; Nothing was theirs; but all the public store; Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor;
Who, should they steal, for want of his relief, He judged himself accomplice with the thief.
Wide was his parish; not contracted close In streets, but here and there a straggling house; Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, to succour the distressed: Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright, The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.
All this the good old man performed alone, Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none, Nor durst he trust another with his care; Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair, To chaffer for preferment with his gold, Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold. But duly watched his flock, by night and day; And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey; And hungry sent the wily fox away.
In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To show you what the rest in orders were: This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright, He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.
THE night was winter in his roughest mood, The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale,
And through the trees I view the embattled tower Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes, and more than half suppressed. Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence.
Where now the vital energy that moved, While summer was, the pure and subtile lymph Through the imperceptible meandering veins Of leaf and flower? It sleeps; and th' icy touch Of unprolific winter has impressed
A cold stagnation on the intestine tide.
But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,
Shall put their graceful foliage on again,
And more aspiring, and with ampler spread,
Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. Then, each in its peculiar honours clad
Shall publish even to the distant eye Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich In streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure;
The scentless and the scented rose; this red And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighbouring cypress or more sable yew Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if Studious of ornament, yet unresolved
Which hue she most approved, she chose them all ; Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late; Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, Though leafless, well attired and thick beset With blushing wreaths, investing every spray; Althea with the purple eye; the broom, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloyed, Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more The bright profusion of her scattered stars.
COWPER. [From "The Task."]
FROM THE CHILD OF THE ISLANDS."
BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand Binding the harvest in a thousand sheaves; A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,
Shines on thatched corners and low cottage-eaves, And gilds with cheerful light the fading leaves :
Beautiful, even here, on hill and dale;
More lovely yet, where Scotland's soil receives The varied rays her wooded mountains hail,
With hues to which our faint and soberer tints are pale.
For there the scarlet rowan seems to mock
The red sea coral-berries, leaves, and all; Light swinging from the moist green shining rock Which beds the foaming torrent's turbid fall; And there the purple cedar, grandly tall, Lifts its crowned head and sun-illumined stem; And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall) Bends o'er the lake, that seems a sapphire gem Dropt from the hoary hill's gigantic diadem.
And far and wide the glorious heather blooms, Its regal mantle o'er the mountains spread; Wooing the bee with honey-sweet perfumes, By many a viewless wild flower richly shed; Up-springing 'neath the glad exulting tread Of eager climbers, light of heart and limb;
Or yielding, soft, a fresh elastic bed, When evening shadows gather, faint and dim, And sun-forsaken crags grow old, and gaunt, and grim.
Oh, Land! first seen when life lay all unknown, Like an unvisited country o'er the wave, Which now my travelled heart looks back upon, Making each sunny path, each gloomy cave, With here a memory, and there a grave:-
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