As harbingers before the Almighty fly: Those but proclaim his style, and disappear; The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there. The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took, But never sued, or cursed with bell and book; With patience bearing wrong, but offering none, Since every man is free to lose his own. The country churls, according to their kind, (Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,) The less he sought his offerings, pinched the more, And praised a priest contented to be poor. Yet of his little he had some to spare, To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare; For mortified he was to that degree, A poorer than himself he would not see. True priests, he said, and preachers of the word, Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord; Nothing was theirs, but all the public store; Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor; Who, should they steal, for want of his relief, He judged himself accomplice with the thief. Wide was his parish; not contracted close In streets, but here and there a straggling house; Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, to succour the distressed; Tempting on foot alone, without affright, The dangers of a dark tempestuous night. All this, the good old man performed alone, Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none. Nor durst he trust another with his care; Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair, To chaffer for preferment with his gold, Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold; But duly watched his flock by night and day, } And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey, } And hungry sent the wily fox away. } The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered; Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared. His preaching much, but more his practice wrought; (A living sermon of the truths he taught;) For this by rules severe his life he squared, That all might see the doctrine which they heard. For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest; (The gold of heaven, who bear the God impressed;) But when the precious coin is kept unclean, The Sovereign's image is no longer seen. If they be foul on whom the people trust, Well may the baser brass contract a rust. The prelate, for his holy life he prized; The worldly pomp of prelacy despised; His Saviour came not with a gaudy show, Nor was his kingdom of the world below. Patience in want, and poverty of mind, } These marks of church and churchmen he designed, } And living taught, and dying left behind. } The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn; In purple he was crucified, not born. They, who contend for place and high degree, Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee. Not but he knew the signs of earthly power Might well become Saint Peter's successor; The Holy Father holds a double reign, The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain.[211]