But at their duty, in their desks they stand, With naked surplice, lacking hood and band: Churches are now of holy song bereft, And half our ancient customs changed or left; Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen, Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green; Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain 130 Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain [Comes] flying forth, from aile to aile about, Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out." These were to him essentials, all things new He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue; To all beside indifferent, easy, cold, Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told. Habit with him was all the test of truth, "It must be right: I've done it from my youth." Questions he answer'd in as brief a way, 140 "It must be wrong--it was of yesterday." Though mild benevolence our priest possess'd, 'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd: Circles in water, as they wider flow, The less conspicuous, in their progress grow; And when at last they touch upon the shore, Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more. His love, like that last circle, all embraced, But with effect that never could be traced. Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best 150 Proclaim his life t' have been entirely rest-- Free from all evils which disturb his mind Whom studies vex and controversies blind. The rich approved--of 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; 160 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._