Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VII, December 1850, Vol. II. Various

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      Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.

      There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,

      The mingling notes came soften'd from below:

      The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,

      The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,

      The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

      The playful children just let loose from school,

      The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,

      And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind —

      These all in sweet confusion sought the shade

      And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

      But now the sounds of population fail,

      No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

      No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

      For all the bloomy flush of life is fled —

      All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,

      That feebly bends beside the plashy spring,

      She, wretched matron – forced in age, for bread,

      To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

      To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,

      To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn —

      She only left of all the harmless train,

      The sad historian of the pensive plain!

      Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,

      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 chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place;

      Unpractic'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 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 show'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 side —

      But in his duty, prompt at every call,

      He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:

      And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

      To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,

      He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,

      Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

      Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

      And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,

      The reverend champion stood: at his control

      Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

      Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

      And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

      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 pass'd, around the pious man,

      With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

      Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,

      And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:

      His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,

      Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd.

      To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

      But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:

      As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

      Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm

      Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread

      Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

      Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

      With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay —

      There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,

      The village master taught his little school.

      A man severe he was, and stern to view;

      I knew him well, and every truant knew:

      Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace

      The day's disasters in his morning face;

      Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

      At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

      Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

      Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd —

      Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

      The love he bore to learning was in fault.

      The village all declar'd how much he knew;

      'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too,

      Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage —

      And even the story ran that he could gauge.

      In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,

      For even though vanquish'd he could argue still;

      While words of learned length and thundering sound

      Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around —

      And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew

      That one small head could carry all he knew.

      But pass'd is all his fame: the very spot,

      Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

      Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

      Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

      Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd.

      Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,

      Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound.

      And news much older than their ale went round.

      Imagination fondly stoops to trace

      The parlor splendors СКАЧАТЬ