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: "It must be wrong--it was of yesterday." Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd, 'Twas but by wishes or by words expressed. 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, 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; 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. 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, 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, 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 e'en 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 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 ploughed, 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 give," quoth he, "My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be:" Unhappy gift! a portion for a son! 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,