Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass’d with careless steps and slow, 115 The mingling notes came soften’d from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low’d to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; 120 The watchdog’s voice that bay’d the whisp’ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, 125 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow’d, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 130 She, wretched matron, forc’d in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 140 A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e’er had chang’d, nor wished to change his place; Unpractis’d he to fawn, or seek for power, 145 By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skill’d to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand’rings, but reliev’d their pain; 150 The long-remember’d beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 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; 160 Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e’en his failings lean’d to Virtue’s side; But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 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. 170