AND WERE THAT BEST?

AND were that best, Love, dreamless, endless sleep?

Gone all the fury of the mortal day;

The daylight gone, and gone the starry ray!

And were that best, Love, rest serene and deep?

Gone labor and desire; no arduous steep

To climb, no songs to sing, no prayers to pray,

No help for those who perish by the way,

No laughter 'midst our tears, no tears to weep!

And were that best, Love, sleep with no dear dream,

Nor memory of any thing in life? Stark death that neither help nor hurt can know!

Oh, rather, Love, the sorrow-bringing gleam,

The living day's long agony and strife!

Rather strong love in pain,- the waking woe!

[From The Deserted Village.]

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild.

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest man

sion rose.

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 changed, nor wished to change his place;

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the va

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 leaned to vir tue's side;

But in his duty, prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment

To

tries

tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

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 whispered praise.

At

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud.

church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His

looks adorned the venerable place;

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sate by his fire, and talked the night away

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of

sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And

fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray..

man,

The service past, around the pious Tran; With ready zeal, each honest rustic E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;

[From The Deserted Village.]

THE HAPPINESS OF PASSING ONE'S AGE IN FAMILIAR PLACES.

IN all my wanderings round this world of care, and God has given

to rule,

my share

school.

A man severe he was, and stern to

view

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

crown,

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life's taper at the close,

How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labor, with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;

No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate;

But on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue's friend;

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay.

While resignation gently slopes the way;

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His heaven commences, ere the world be past.

[From The Traveller.]

FRANCE.

GAY sprightly land of mirth and social ease,

Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,

How often have I led thy sportive

choir,

With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!

Where shading elms along the margin grew,

And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew;

And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,

But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill,

Have led their children through the mirthful maze,

And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,

Has

frisked beneath the burden of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,

Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honor forms the social temper here:

Honor, that praise which real merit gains

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,

It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,

And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem.

Till,

seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.

But while this softer art their bliss supplies,

It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;

And the weak soul, within itself unblest,

Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.

Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art,

Pants for the vulgar praise which

fools impart;

[ace,

Here Vanity assumes her pert grimAnd trims her robe of frieze with copper lace;

Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer,

The

boast one splendid banquet once a year;

mind still turns where shifting fashion draws

Nor weighs the solid worth of selfapplause.