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. [Illustration: Beside the bed where parting life was laid] 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