« ForrigeFortsett »
self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.
“ Are we not here now, continued the corporal, and “ are we not” (dropping his hat plump upon the ground “ -and pausing, before he pronounced the word) gone! « in a moment ?" The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. -Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand feemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corps, -and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.
LL our praises why should Lords engross?
Rife, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the fick, and folace to the swain. Whofe causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Whose feats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise ? 5. The Man of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market place with poor o'erspread!
age and want fit smiling at the gate :
fick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
And what! no monument, infcription, stone?
Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame,
makes all the history ; Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ; Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
CH A P.
CH A P. V.
THE COUNTRY CLERGYM AN.
EAR yonder copse, where once the garden smild,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft manfion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And pasting rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, 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 wanderings, but reliev'd their pain, The long remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whose beard defcending 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 ftay; Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd 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 even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
TH CONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our fight,
Forc'd by soft violence of pray’r,