“Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e’en the story ran—_that he could gauge_.” Now the rustics of an English village were not at all likely to select this accomplishment of gauging as one to bestow upon their prodigy of learning. We were tempted to explain this choice in the poet by the necessity of rhyme, which too often has manifestly determined him in the selection of his epithets, till it occurred to us that his mind had been travelling back to the _Irish_ village, where the illicit still may have brought even to the ragged urchins of the place some rumours of the science of the exciseman. In the whole range of English heroic verse, there is nothing more beautiful or more complete than the description of the village pastor,— ——“The man to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.” Indeed, of the entire poem, it may be deliberately said, that it has more tenderness and pathos, gives more of picture to the eye, and of feeling to the heart, than any other in the language which is written in the same verse or metre. The polished couplets of Pope are nowhere else seen united with so much of the genuine essence of poetry. How perfect, in every way, are such lines as these,— “But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he pray’d and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.” One more remark, one other brief quotation, and we quit this most fascinating poem, which nestles deeper in the English heart than perhaps any other. What a bland, gentle, loving humour it is which occasionally steals over the picture of _The Deserted Village_, giving here and there charming touches, as of gay sunshine breaking out upon the several points of a shaded landscape, yet never disturbing the sweet serenity and sadness of the whole. Never did humour wear so gentle an aspect. We go from the pastor’s house, and the pastor himself, to the village inn, and there is no abruptness in the transition. What a quiet, observant, tolerant humour it is that sees those—“broken tea-cups, _wisely kept for show_.” What else could they serve for? And they may still do to be looked at. “Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Observe it sinks, nor shall it more impart _An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart_. Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale, No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, _Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear_.”