University of Virginia Library

O could he but his blessings feel!
Sure of the holy men that kneel
And say meek prayers in linen vest,
The country parson is most blest;
For whom, far distant from the sound
Of war, the fertile earth is bound,
Without his labour or his pain,
Forth from her lap, in wholesome grain,
To pour two hundred pounds a year,
Of taxes and incumbrance clear.
What if he see not at his gate
That train of reverend suitors wait,
Who oft to Lambeth towers repair,
When livings fall of income fair,
And there with wishful eyes behold
Proud portals, gothic sculptures old,
Retinue, furniture, and plate,
Fitting his Grace's princely state,
While at the crape of tatter'd gowns
The footman sneers, the porter frowns;
What if the parsonage house be plain,
And equal show and state maintain
With the good parish church that stands
The work of no proud artist's hands,
Where no vain roofs or pillars fair
Tempt the ungodly eye to stare
On marble, gold, or sculpture nice,
While the good preacher rails at vice,
Where no cathedral vestments shine,
The holy pride of minds divine,
Embroidered cope or mantle bright,
Stain'd with false hues of purple light;
What if less costly be his fare,
And he with purest oil prepare
The sallad that his herbs afford,
Whilst to the chaplain of my lord
Or to the pamper'd dean, just able,
With princely rents to keep a table,
He foreign luxuries resigns,
French soups, French sauces, and French wines;
Yet never let it give him care,
That Secker fills the primate's chair,
Whilst of choice blessings in his store
The country parson counts a score;
An easy life, whose smiling face
Is never ruffled by disgrace,
In gifts of health and quiet rich;
A field with fence of hedge and ditch,
Within whose wide range he may till,
Or graze his cattle if he will;
A freehold dwelling, mansion fit,
Where, thanks to Pratt, the friend of Pitt,
At writs of statesmen he may smile,
If chance they err in name or stile;
A pond that willows shade; a grove;
A reverend cave, (dark ivy wove
With woodbine clothes its ancient side,
Relic of an old abbey's pride,)
The hum of bees and rush of streams,
To sooth his sleep and prompt his dreams;
The Kentish hills, the Surry meads,
The level downs that Dorset spreads,
Or else the forest side, where slept
Wild beasts of old, for tyrants kept;
Nor in the blessings of his lot
Let this prime blessing be forgot,
That still in cottages and plains
The cloth some dignity maintains,
That village-swains, a hardy throng,
Whose limbs with toil and temperance strong,
Untainted English blood still hold,
Bow to the cassoc as of old;
Nor is the parson and his gown,
Tho' never can the name in town
Without a jest be heard or spoke,
Yet in the country quite a joke.

O had I been with happier fate
Nurst by those muses, who their state
By Isis or by Cam unfold,
And who for ev'ry nursling hold
Far richer than in days of yore,
Some goodly benefice in store,
Ye Muses, sure then by your care
Some parsonage had been my share.
Then by no heavy charge employ'd,
Whilst ease and leisure I enjoy'd,
If chance that passion had been mine
The champion of the church to shine,
And, far above a vulgar fame,
With high divines to rank my name,
Taught by the schools to wield the pen,
Ah, who can say, ye holy men,
How well this hand had ply'd the quill?
Then had large volumes penn'd with skill,
Told how the faithful, who submit
To holy church with reverence fit,
And pay to priesthood honours meet,
Have purest light to guide their feet,
Sure never that straight way to miss,
Which leads at last to starry bliss;
Whilst schismatic, and who with pride
The hallowed churchmen dare deride,
In a blind path benighted run,
Where never ray of moon or sun
Descends to guide their footsteps dark:
Nor had I been less slow to mark
How best the holy church may still
Her sway maintain, and to her will
Obedient keep a trembling land
With sacred terrors at command.
If sectaries, enflam'd with pride,
Like to the strong rebellious tide,
Whose waves usurp beyond their bounds,
At priesthood threw unhollowed sounds,
Then to enforce just rigour bold,
My useful doctrine well had told,
What wholesome penalties may quell
The hated sects that dare rebel,
And drive represt the saucy tide
Within its wonted bed to slide.
But most my labours had been due
To trace with lines subtile and true,
From what mishaps it has ensu'd,
Mishaps devoutly to be ru'd,
That zeal, whose torch once glorious shone,
As when in summer on his throne
Advanc'd to burning Cancer nigh,
The blazing sun is seen on high,
Now thro' our land in hapless days
A weak and trembling light displays,
Like to the sun, whose glorious form,
Pale winter marrs, when thro' the storm,
He shoots a faint and sickly beam,
Soon to be quench'd in ocean's stream:
Nor had I miss'd then to reveal,
How best the torch of holy zeal
Its wonted flame may yet renew,
And long deride the impious crew,
Who seek in everlasting night
To wrap that pure and sacred light.

Thus haply had I prov'd my skill
To urge the controversial quill;
But if the freezing blood that glides
Around my heart in sluggish tides,
That bold ambition had withstood,
And abler priests, whose sprightlier blood
The hope of bishopricks may fire,
Such high themes for themselves require,
Yet, ah! what joys had been behind,
To sooth my unambitious mind!
In rural prospect, grove, and green,
Valley and hill, clear streams between;
In dairy, orchard, field and farm,
What store of bliss the sense to charm!
O give ye quickly to my hand
The surplice white, the reverend band;
The robes that holy priests array,
And clothe me in these robes I pray.
Then far from London and its pains,
Bear me, O bear me to the plains,
Where Stower or Avon lead their tides,
Or Thames an infant stream yet glides;
And there where fields and meadows smile,
Close by the church, an aged pile,
Place me, O place me in fair ground,
The parson with my parish round.
And thou fair nymph, with look so soft,
Thou that art seen from college oft
With reverend fellows to repair
To parsonage house and country air,
Thou, Indolence, contented be,
To come and dwell, fair nymph, with me.
With thee, companion of my day,
How sweet in summer-time to stray
By river-side thro' fields and farms,
When o'er the meads the village swarms,
And nymphs around the haycocks sing,
Or dance in many a merry ring,
Whilst with my eye the field I measure,
And count the ample tithes with pleasure!
Or else, when sultry beams invade,
And dinner duly has been made,
Hard by the foot of some dark hill,
Where shadowing trees are waving still,
How sweet, O goddess, in thy lap
To lay my head and take a nap,
And dream of larger gifts possest,
While the bright sun goes down the West!

Happy, thrice happy, that divine,
Who can with casuistry fine
Dark points illume, solve knotty cases,
Who every holy mystery traces,
And mightiest adversaries foils,
Famous by controversial toils.
Terror and fate, in servile chains,
Beneath his footstep he restrains,
Or forth he sends them with command
To scourage an unbelieving land,
And more the stubborn to confound,
He thunders in their ears the found
Of hell, whose wide rapacious jaws
He opes or shuts by magic laws.
Thrice happy he above the rest,
Nor is the parson yet unblest
Who careless makes his idle rounds
Of visits thro' his parish bounds,
Knows all the gentry, by the hand
Shakes the rich farmers as they stand,
At every village-feast a guest,
And always welcome to the best;
Who duly with his patron dines,
Tastes mutton and Oporto wines,
And after dinner may retire
With the good sisters of the squire,
A maiden train, to drink bohea,
While village scandal mends the tea;
Who sometimes may, in seasons fit,
With county-knights at table sit,
Or justices, an awful train,
Whose cares redress the injur'd swain,
Whose looks the guilty clown confound,
Like gods rever'd the country round.

Happy his days thus to beguile,
It matters not to him the while,
That now the common-council meet
Statesmen self-taught from Watling-street,
And now in ermine rob'd, their maces
Before them laid, with awful faces
The mayor and aldermen in state,
Self-chosen monarchs hold debate,
What public ills they shall repress,
Whom next displace, whom next address.
He cares not that the distant Trent
Conspires with Exeter and Kent,
And Severn with his muddy wave,
Against bad counsellors to rave:
Nor much admires that patriot band,
Who bent to save their native land
Convene at Wildman's, awful dome!
That holds the sons of Greece and Rome;
There arm'd for fight and bloody toils,
And eager to divide the spoils
Of ministers and placemen slain,
Rush forth, their triumphs sure to gain.
If chance the mighty Grenvilles split,
It hurts the parson not a whit,
That each departing from the other
Disdains to count him for a brother.
Nor moves it him with sore dismay,
That state-physicians loudly say
That England and her church in danger,
Tremble beneath a haughty stranger,
Decreed to perish, hapless lot!
In thraldom to the tyrant Scot.
He gives no pity to his grace,
Or Temple, haply out of place;
Nor tho its Wilkes sad George-street lack,
Can spare one sigh to waft him back.
By much the happier in his lot,
The minister he envies not,
Whose state attracts the jealous gaze
Of vain ambition with its blaze;
Bute, who his prince's favour shares,
The just reward of honest cares;
And whilst a nation most to bless
He bids fierce war his rage repress,
And peace her heavenly form restore,
Too long a stranger to our shore,
Hopes that his crime may be forgot,
Detested crime, that he is Scot.

The seasons take by turn their flight,
And, lo! the parson to delight,
Still to his table by the swains,
Fit recompence of godly pains,
Are brought choice presents, which the field
Or garden in their seasons yield;
The peaches of the earliest tree,
The earliest honey of the bee;
Nor wants there, more to give content,
The liquor by the apples lent,
A cooling draught! which, as he swills,
He lashes freely as he wills
The statesmen who conspir'd to frame
The cyder-act, abhorred name!
Content from passing fame to hear
The name of Pratt, he comes not near
That awful hall where law is seen
To sit enthroned, mighty queen!
And lifts an iron rod to smite
Pale wretches, victims of her spite.
He never yet has seen Guildhall,
Which holds within its stately wall
Records and city archives old,
And where, O let that tale be told,
By common-councils nurst with pains
Her life still liberty retains:
Oft list'ning gladly to the sound
Of crouds that shout with joy around,
As burns the patriotic fit,
The names of Temple, Wilkes, or Pitt.
Yet this to foggy London air
Tempts not the parson to repair;
And when he hears in that fam'd place,
Where Indian Princes by our grace
We lift to thrones or else uncrown;
How orators of high renown,
With speech uncouth, and looks of rage,
Their furious battles loudly wage,
'Till Leadenhall thro' all its bounds
Re-echo to the madd'ning sounds;
He thanks his God, that far from broil,
From London far, in fruitful soil
He dwells, the happiest man alive,
And freely bids the hero Clive
To Delly bear the British thunder,
And spoil Nabobs and Patnas plunder.