University of Virginia Library

The PARSON.

AN ELEGY.

Chill blew drear autumn's sadly sighing gale,
The sun declining shed a feeble light
O'er the brown landscape and the faded vale,
And shone reflective from the mountain's height.
Musing, I wander'd Hudson's lofty steep,
The loud wave sent its hoarse and sullen roar;
The rapid wild-fowl skim'd the howling deep
And flung its screamings to the lonely shore.
The scene infus'd a melancholy glow
And lull'd to sorrow every chearful thought,
Tun'd the dull passions to the tale of woe
And serious ponder'd Human Nature's lot.
While in this frame with folded arms I stray'd
With thoughtful step and steady downcast eye,
I heard a voice flow plaintive o'er the glade,
Which often paus'd to heave a sorrowing sigh.
List'ning I stood and cast my eyes around,
To where the accents of affliction rose:
There I beheld, stretch'd on the dewy ground,
A mourning stranger clad in raven clothes:
His aspect told the sorrows of his mind;
His cheeks were pale, in anguish roll'd his eye;
His short locks trembled at the northern wind
Which wip'd his tears and sorrowful flew by.
His dusty coat had seen its youthful years,
His friendly Greeks let thro' his pious knees,
His elbow thro' his reverend sleeve appears
And kiss'd, tho' coldly, autumn's searching breeze
Upon his head in majesty uprose,
A hat! which brav'd the fury of the storm,
His slouching boots a pair of legs disclose,
Useful supporters, but devoid of form.
Yet in this garb his melancholy face
Shone with a lustre dignified and great;
There flow'd a ray of sweet celestial grace
Which brav'd chill poverty and adverse fate.
Just as I turn'd and took this transient view
Of th' appearance of this sorrowing man,
These mournful accents from his lips he threw
More sad than music his slow murmurs ran.
“Hard is the solitary parson's lot:
“Wrapt in the glooms of poverty and care:
“Soon are his labours by his flock forgot;
“No fond remembrance of his works they bear.
“Ingratitude his anxious pain repays—
“His zeal and fervour in religion's cause,
“Which warn'd the wanderer of his evil ways,
“And bid reflection o'er his errors pause.
“Reduc'd by sorrow and lung-breaking zeal,
“When the cold tomb receives his last remains
“Short is affliction, which their bosoms feel
“Feebly is heard their melancholy strains.
“His midnight lamp he solitary trims,
“Turns the worn leaves of John and Matthew o'er,
“Then gives to sleep his sedentary limbs
“And tunes the musically nasal snore.
“When sabbath day appears with low'ring sky
“Around his active throat he twines his band,
“Bids to the wind his sacred mantle fly,
“And draws his glove half finger'd on his hand.
“When he ascends the pulpit's holy flight
“And rears his breast above the desk to view,
“Beneath, his children meet his dolesome sight
“With sunday garments, grinning in the pew.
“Full pleas'd to see papa exalted high,
“His numerous cherubs with fond rapture gaze;
“He, hapless creature! heaves a deadly sigh,
“And tunes his organs to his maker's praise.
“To stop their cries, he scarce has food and meat,
“And scarce a robe to screen them from the cold,
“Yet like the great these beings still must eat,
“And still like them in some warm garb be roll'd.
“All this my lot! poor Classic's told his pain;
“And snatch'd from time a momentary ease,
“It lulls the breast to pour unheard its strain;
“Where nought responds but Hudson and the breeze.
“Where yon large city rears its lofty spires,
“There stands my church, there live my tender flocks:
“The sick'ning view my anguish'd bosom fires,
“And thrills my passions with electric shocks.
“More could I say, but ah! I'll not repine,
“Let poverty's keen blasts sweep sad along;
“The time will come when bright'ning beams will shine,
“When Classic shall forget his mournful song.”
Here the sad stranger ceas'd his lonely moan,
To sympathy I gave the trembling tear;
For ah! the bard, a rueful parson's son,
Should weep for one so kindred and so dear.
Still unperceiv'd I left the dreary scene
And sought a parent's hospitable cot,
Where the kind smiles of plenty yet are seen,
Not such like Classic yet his humble lot.
O fair divinity, celestal maid,
Once thy bright charms enrapturing struck mine eyes;
Once to my breast I prest thy promis'd aid
But ah, look! yonder wretched Classic lies.