truth,
Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;
A cunning never to dishonour lent,
And rather for defence than conquest meant;
’Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,
But not enough to make him enemies;
He ever aim’d to please; and to offend
Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend;
Yet for the friendship never much would pay,
Content to bow, be silent, and obey,
And by a soothing suff’rance find his way. 
   Fiddling and fishing were his arts:  at times
He alter’d sermons, and he aim’d at rhymes;
And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,
Oft he amused with riddles and charades. 
Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse
But gain’d in softness what it lost in force: 
Kind his opinions; he would not receive
An ill report, nor evil act believe;
“If true, ’twas wrong; but blemish great or small
Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all.” 
   If ever fretful thought disturb’d his breast,
If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress’d,
It sprang from innovation; it was then
He spake of mischief made by restless men: 
Not by new doctrines:  never in his life
Would he attend to controversial strife;
For sects he cared not; " They are not of us,
Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;
But ’tis the change, the schism at home I feel;
Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal: 
Not at the altar our young brethren read
(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;
But at their duty, in their desks they stand,
With naked surplice, lacking hood and band: 
Churches are now of holy song bereft,
And half our ancient customs changed or left;
Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,
Nor crimson berry tips the holly’s green;
Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain
Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain
Comes flying forth from aisle to aisle about,
Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out.” 
   These were to him essentials; all things new
He deemed superfluous, useless, or untrue: 
To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,
Here the fire kindled, and the woe was told. 
   Habit with him was all the test of truth: 
“It must be right:  I’ve done it from my youth.” 
Questions he answer’d in as brief a way: 
“It must be wrong—­it was of yesterday.” 
   Though mild benevolence our Priest possess’d,
’Twas but by wishes or by words expressed. 
Circles in water, as they wider flow,
The less conspicuous in their progress grow,
And when at last they touch upon the shore,
Distinction ceases, and they’re view’d no more. 
His love, like that last circle, all embraced,
But with effect that never could be traced. 
   Now rests our Vicar.  They who knew him best,
Proclaim his life t’have been entirely rest;
Free from all evils which disturb his mind
Whom studies vex and controversies blind. 
   The rich approved,—­of