them in awe he stood;
The poor admired,—­they all believed him good;
The old and serious of his habits spoke;
The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;
Mothers approved a safe contented guest,
And daughters one who back’d each small request;
In him his flock found nothing to condemn;
Him sectaries liked,—­he never troubled them: 
No trifles fail’d his yielding mind to please,
And all his passions sunk in early ease;
Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he entered in.

The curate.

Ask you what lands our Pastor tithes?—­Alas! 
But few our acres, and but short our grass: 
In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May roll the single cow or favourite steed;
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 e’en the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow. 
A man so learn’d you shall but seldom see,
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 ploughed, 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 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 woeful years;
The husband’s terrors, and the father’s