Ask you what lands our pastor tithes?--Alas! But few our acres, and but short our grass: In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed, May roll the single cow or favourite steed, Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen, 170 His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green: But these, our hilly heath and common wide, Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide; No crops luxuriant in our borders stand, For here we plough the ocean, not the land; Still reason wills that we our pastor pay, And custom does it on a certain day. Much is the duty, small the legal due, And this with grateful minds we keep in view; Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led, 180 Some by the thought, that all men must be fed; Duty and love, and piety and pride, have each their force, and for the priest provide. Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve; All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know He merits love, and their respect bestow. A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see, Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he-- Not grieved by years alone; though his appear 190 Dark and more dark, severer on severe: Not in his need,--and yet we all must grant How painful 'tis for feeling age to want; Nor in his body's sufferings--yet we know Where time has plough'd, there misery loves to sow: But in the wearied mind, that all in vain Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain. His father saw his powers--"I'll give," quoth he, "My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be." Unhappy gift! a portion for a son! 200 But all he had:--he learn'd, and was undone! Better, apprenticed to an humble trade, Had he the cassock for the priesthood made, Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped, And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped. He once had hope--hope ardent, lively, light; His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright: Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote, Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note; At morn, at evening at his work was he, 210 And dream'd what his Euripides would be. Then care began;--he loved, he woo'd, he wed; Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed-- A Curate's bed! then came the woful years, The husband's terrors, and the father's tears; A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd, With wants and woes--by daily cares perplex'd; No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid, But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid. A kind physician and without a fee, 220 Gave his opinion--"Send her to the sea." "Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send A friendless woman? Can I find a friend? No; I must with her, in her need, repair To that new place; the poor lie everywhere;-- Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:"--