Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage

Of bigot zeal madly to overturn;

And, if the desolating hand of war

Spare them, they shall continue to bestow-
Upon the thronged abodes of busy Men

(Depraved, and ever prone to fill their minds
Exclusively with transitory things)
An air and mien of dignified pursuit;
Of sweet civility-on rustic wilds.
-The Poet, fostering for his native land
Such hope, entreats that Servants may abound
Of those pure Altars worthy; Ministers
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain
Superior, insusceptible of pride,
And by ambition's longings undisturbed ;
Men, whose delight is where their duty leads
Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day
Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight
Of blessed Angels, pitying human cares.
-And, as on earth it is the doom of Truth
To be perpetually attacked by foes
Open or covert, be that Priesthood still,

For her defence, replenished with a Band
Of strenuous Champions, in scholastic arts
Thoroughly disciplined; nor (if in course
Of the revolving World's disturbances
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert !
To meet such trial) from their spiritual Sires
Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the sword
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed
With hostile din, and combating in sight
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust.
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,
So to declare the conscience satisfied:

Nor for their bodies would accept release,

But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed,

With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame,

The faith which they by diligence had earned,

And through illuminating grace received,

For their dear Country-men, and all mankind.
O high example, constancy divine !

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal

And from the sanctity of elder times

Not deviating,-a Priest, the like of whom,

If multiplied, and in their stations set,
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful Land
Spread true Religion, and her genuine fruits)
Before me stood that day; on holy ground
Fraught with the relics of mortality,
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees
To lofty raised; and to the highest, last;
The head and mighty paramount of truths ;
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds,

For mortal Creatures, conquered and secured.

That basis laid, those principles of faith Announced, as a preparatory act Of reverence to the spirit of the place; The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground, Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe, But with a mild and social chearfulness; Then to the Solitary turned, and spake.

"At morn or eve, in your retired Domain, Perchance you not unfrequently have marked A Visitor-intent upon the task Of prying, low and high, for herbs and flowers : Too delicate employ, as would appear,

For One, who, though of drooping mien, had yet, From Nature's kindliness, received a frame Robust as ever rural labour bred."

The Solitary answered. "Such a Form

Full well I recollect. We often crossed

Each other's path; but, as the Intruder seemed
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept,
And I as willingly did cherish mine,

We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard,
From my good Host, that he was crazed in brain
By unrequited love; and scaled the rocks,
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods,
In hope to find some virtuous herb, of power
To cure his malady!"

The Vicar smiled,

"Alas! before to-morrow's sun goes down

His habitation will be here: for him

That open grave is destined."

"Died he then

Of pain and grief," the Solitary asked,

"Believe it not-oh! never could that be!"

" He loved," the vicar answered, " deeply loved,

Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and pined
When he had told his love, and sued in vain,
-Rejected-yea repelled-and, if with scorn
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but
A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears.
That he could brook, and glory in ;-but when
The tidings came that she whom he had wooed
Was wedded to another, and his heart
Was forced to rend away its only hope,
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth
An Object worthier of regard than he,
In the transition of that bitter hour!
Lost was she, lost; nor could the sufferer say
That in the act of preference he had been
Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone!
She, whose dear name with unregarded sighs
He long had blessed, whose Image was preserved-
Shrined in his breast with fond idolatry,

Had vanished from his prospects and desires ;
Not by translation to the heavenly Choir
Who have put off their mortal spoils-ah no!
She lives another's wishes to complete,