He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He 'stablish'd truth, or startled error, The Baptist found him far too deep, The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or show'd That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius: And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them; For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses; And sage remarks on chalk and clay. And hints to noble lords and nurses: True histories of last year's ghost, Lines to a ringlet, or a turban; And trifles for the Morning Post, And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking: And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild; And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome, which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus; From him I learn'd the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus: I used to singe his powder'd wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in; And make the puppy dance a jig, When he began to quote Augustin. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before; You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?--look down. And construe on the slab before you, _Hic jacet_ GULIELMUS BROWN, _Vir nulla non donandus lauru_. _New Monthly Magazine._ * * * * * TAILORS.