The poem tells the story of a village which had once been happy and flourishing, but which is now quite deserted and fallen to ruins.  The village is thought by some people to have been Lissoy, where Oliver had lived as a boy, but others think this cannot be, for they say no Irish village was ever so peaceful and industrious as Goldsmith pictures his village to have been.  But we must remember that the poet had not seen his home since childhood, and that he looked back upon it through the golden haze of memory.  It is in this poem that we have the picture of Oliver’s old schoolmaster which I have already given you.  Here, too, we have a picture of the kindly village parson who may be taken both from Oliver’s father and from his brother Henry.  Probably he had his brother most in mind, for Henry Goldsmith had but lately died, “and I loved him better than most other men,” said the poet sadly in the dedication of this poem—­

    “Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
    And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
    There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
    The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 
    A man he was to all the country dear,
    And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
    Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
    Nor e’er had changed, nor wish’d to change, his place: 
    Unpractis’d he to fawn, or seek for power,
    By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;
    Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize,
    More skill’d to raise the wretched than to rise. 
    His house was known to all the vagrant train;
    He chid their wand’rings, but relieved their pain: 
    The long-remember’d beggar was his guest,
    Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
    The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud,
    Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d;
    The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
    Sat by his fire, and talk’d the night away,
    Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
    Shoulder’d his crutch, and shoed how fields were won. 
    Pleased with his guests, the good man learn’d 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 ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side;
    But in his duty prompt, at every call,
    He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt for all;
    At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
    His looks adorn’d the venerable place;
    Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway,
    And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray. 
    The service past, around the pious man,
    With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
    Ev’n children followed with endearing wile,
    And pluck’d his gown, to share the good man’s smile.