University of Virginia Library

CANTO VIII.

“In ev'ry way, in ev'ry sense, Man is the care of Providence;
And whensoe'er he goeth wrong, The errors to himself belong:
Nor do we alway judge aright Of Fortune's favours, or her spite.
How oft with pleasure we pursue Some glitt'ring phantom in our view;
Not rightly seen or understood, We chace it as a real good:
At length the air-born vision flies And each fond expectation dies!
Sometimes the clouds appear to low'r,
And threat misfortune's direful hour:
We tremble at the approaching blast:
Each hope is fled—we look aghast;
When lo! the darkness disappears, The glowing sun all nature cheers;
The drooping heart again acquires Its former joys, its former fires.
Last night I wander'd o'er the plain
Through unknown ways and beating rain,
Nor thought 'twould be my lot to fall On such an inn as Welcome Hall:
Indeed with truth I cannot say When there I came I lost my way,
For all was good, and nought to pay.”
Thus Syntax, with reflection fraught, Soliloquiz'd the moral thought;
While Grizzle, all alive and gay, Ambled along the ready way.
Last night she found it no disaster To share the fortune of her master;
She, 'mong the finest hunters stood,
And shar'd with them the choicest food:
In a fine roomy stable plac'd, With ev'ry well-trimm'd clothing grac'd,
Poor Grizzle was as fair a joke To all the merry stable-folk,
As the good Doctor's self had been, To the kind gentry of the Inn.
Enrapt in Contemplation's pow'r, Syntax forgot the fleeting hour;
Till looking round, he saw the sun Had past his bright meridian run.
A shepherd-boy he now espied, Strolling along the highway side;
And, on his wand'ring flock intent, The stripling whistled as he went.
“My honest lad, perhaps you know, What distance I shall have to go,
Before my eager eyes may greet
Some place where I may drink and eat.”
“Continue, Master, o'er the Down,
And soon you'll reach the neighb'ring town:
In less, I think, than half an hour, You'll pass by yonder lofty tow'r:
Keep onward by the church-yard wall,
When you will see an house of call;
The sign's a Dragon—there you'll find
Eating and drinking to your mind.”
Across the Down the Doctor went,
And towards the Church his way he bent.
“Thus,” Syntax said, “when man is hurl'd
Upwards and downwards in the world;
When some strong impulse makes him stray
And he, perhaps, has lost his way,
The Church,—Religion's holy seat,
Will guide to peace his wand'ring feet!
But, hark! the death-bell's solemn toll Tells the departure of a soul;
The Sexton, too, I see prepares The place where ends all human cares.
And, lo, a crowd of tombs appear! I may find something curious here;—
For oft poetic flowers are found To flourish in sepulchral ground.
I'll just walk in to take a look, And pick up matter for my book:
The living, some wise man has said, Delight in reading of the dead.
What golden gains my book would boast,
If I could meet a chatty ghost,
Who would some news communicate Of its unknown and present state:
Some pallid figure in a shroud, Or sitting on a murky cloud;
Or kicking up a new-made grave,
And screaming forth some horrid stave;
Or bursting from the hollow tomb, To tell of bloody deeds to come;
Or adverse skeletons embattling,
With ghastly grins and bones a rattling;
Something to make the misses stare, And force upright their curly hair;
To cause their pretty forms to shake,
To make them doubt if they're awake:
And thus to tonish folks present, The Picturesque of Sentiment!
But 'tis, I fear, some hours too soon—
Ghosts slumber all the afternoon:
I'll ask the Sexton if, at night, I may perchance pick up a sprite.”
The Doctor in canonic state, Now op'd at once the church-yard gate;
While Grizzle too thought fit to pass,
Who knew the taste of church-yard grass.
“Sir,” cried the Sexton, “let me say
That you must take your mare away,
Or else, believe me, I am bound To lead her quickly to the pound.”
“You do mistake my honest friend—
'Tis a foul wrong that you intend:
A Parson's mare will claim a right In a church-yard to take a bite;
And, as I come to meditate Among these signs of human fate,
I beg you will not make a riot, But let the poor beast feed in quiet.”
No more the conscious Sexton said, But urg'd his labours for the dead;
While Syntax cull'd, with critic care,
What the sad muse had written there.

EPITAPHS.

Syntax.—
“We both, my friend, pursue one trade;
I for the living, you the dead.
For whom that grave do you prepare
With such keen haste, and cheerful air?”

Sexton.—
“An' please your Rev'rence Lawyer Thrust,
Thank heav'n, will moulder here to dust:
Never before did I take measure Of any grave with half the pleasure:
And when within this hole he's laid,
I'll ram the earth down with my spade:
I'll take good care he shall not rise, Till summon'd to the last assize;
And, when he sues for Heaven's grace,
I would not wish to take his place.
He once on cruel deed intent, Seiz'd on my goods for want of rent;
Nay, I declare, as I'm a sinner, He took away the children's dinner:
For, as they sat around the table, Eating as fast as they were able,
He seiz'd the dishes, great and small,
The children's bread and milk, and all!
The urchins cried, the mother pray'd,
I begg'd his rigour might be stay'd
Till I could on our Parson call, Who would engage to pay it all;
But he disdain'd a Parson's word,
And mock'd the suit which I preferr'd.
He knew a better way to thrive; To pay two pounds by taking five.
Bursting with rage, I knock'd him down,
And broke the cruel rascal's crown;
For which in county-gaol I lay, Half-starving, many a bitter day;
But our good Parson brought relief,
And kindly sooth'd a mother's grief.
He, while in prison I remain'd, My little family sustain'd;
And when I was from durance free, Made me his Sexton, as you see.
But Doctor Worthy, he is gone; You'll read his virtues on the stone
That's plac'd aloft upon the wall, Where you may see the ivy crawl:
Oh while his ashes rest below, He's gone where all the righteous go.
I dug his grave with many a moan, And almost wish'd it were my own.
I daily view the earthly bed, Where Death has laid his rev'rend head;
And when I see a weed appear, I pluck it up, and shed a tear.
The parish griev'd, for not an eye In all its large extent was dry,
Save one:—but such a kindly grace
Ne'er deck'd the Lawyer's iron face.
The aged wept a friend long known, The young a parent's loss bemoan:
While we alas! shall long deplore The bounteous patron of the poor.”

The Doctor heard, with tearful eye, The Sexton's grateful eulogy:
Then sought the stone with gentle tread,
As fearing to disturb the dead,
And thus, in measur'd tones, he read:
“For fifty years the Pastor trod The way commanded by his God;
For fifty years his flock he fed With that divine celestial bread
Which nourishes the better part And fortifies man's failing heart.
His wide, his hospitable door, Was ever open to the poor;
While he was sought, for counsel sage, By ev'ry rank and ev'ry age.
That counsel sage he always gave, To warn, to strengthen, and to save:
He sought the sheep that went astray, And pointed out the better way:
But while he with his smiles approv'd The virtue he so dearly lov'd,
He did not spare the harsher part, To probe the ulcer to the heart;
He sternly gave the wholesome pain
That brought it back to health again.
Thus, the commands of Heav'n his guide,
He liv'd,—and then in peace he died.”
Syntax.—
“Pray tell me, friend, who now succeeds
This Pastor, fam'd for virtuous deeds?”

Sexton.—
“A very worthy, pious man,
Who does us all the good he can;
But he, good Sir, has got a wife;”

Syntax.—
“Who may perhaps disturb his life;
A tongue sometimes engenders strife.”

Sexton.—
“No:—she's a worthy woman too;
But then they've children not a few;
I think it is the will of Heav'n That they are bless'd with six or seven;
And then you will agree with me, That home's the scene of charity.”

Syntax.—
“'Tis true;—nor can your Parson preach
A sounder doctrine than you teach.
And now, good Sexton, let me ask,
While you perform your mortal task,
As day and night you frequent tread The dreary mansions of the dead,
If you, in very truth, can boast, That you have ever seen a ghost?”

Sexton.—
“Your Rev'rence, no; tho' some folks say
That such things have been seen as they.
Old women talk, in idle chat, Of ghosts and goblins, and all that,
While, round the glimm'ring fire at night,
They fill their hearers with affright.
'Tis said that Doctor Worthy walks,
And up and down the church-yard stalks;
That often when the moon shines bright,
His form appears all clad in white:
But to his soul it is not given To walk on earth—for that's in Heaven.
All hours I have cross'd this place, And ne'er beheld a spirit's face.
Once, I remember, late at night, I something saw, both large and white,
Which made me stop, and made me stare,—
But 'twas the Parson's grizzle mare.
Such things as these, I do believe, The foolish people oft deceive;
And then the parish gossips talk How witches dance, and spectres walk.”

Syntax.—
“Your reasoning I much commend;
So fare you well, my honest friend.
If we act right we need not dread Either the living or the dead:
The spirit that disturbs our rest Is a bad conscience in our breast;
With that a man is doubly curst:”

Sexton.—
“That spirit haunted Lawyer Thrust.”

Syntax.—
“His race is run, his work is o'er—
The wicked man can sin no more;
He's gone where justice will be done To all who live beneath the sun:
And though he wronged you when alive,
Let not your vengeance thus survive:
Forgive him, now he's laid so low— Nor trample on a fallen foe.
Once more farewell! But ere we part,
There's something that will cheer your heart.”

Sexton.—
“Your rev'rence, 'twill be some time yet
Ere I forgive;—but to forget—
No, no, for though I may forgive, I can't forget him while I live.
For your good gift, kind Heaven I bless,
And wish you health and happiness:
I thank my God, each coming day, For what he gives and takes away;
And now I thank Him, good and just,
That he has taken Lawyer Thrust.”

Syntax along the village pass'd, And to the Dragon came at last;
Where, as the shepherd-boy had said, There seem'd to be a busy trade;
And, seated in an easy chair, He found that all he wish'd was there.