Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

An honest vicar, little known to fame,
Whose wealth was small, whose life was free from blame;
It chanc'd, in riding on the village road,
Calmly content, and ruminating good;
Was overtook by Morio brisk and gay,
Directed by some scheme the self-same way:
Morio, a youth, who two vain years had spent
At London, and from thence to Paris went;
Proficient he, alike, at either school,
Here he commenc'd, and there completed fool.
He learn'd to hammer “monsieur, voulez-vous,”
And dangle at his back the monkey queue.
He learn'd each folly men of sense despise,
To triumph in himself, and scorn the wise.

He knew the priest, and form'd the deep design,
To play a prank, and bite the grave divine:
To gain his point, he sighing, thus began,
“Well, hard his fate! alas, poor honest man;
“Believe me, sir, at length good Pio's dead;
“The very best of Levi's sons is fled.”
Amaz'd the vicar heard, and doubting stands
Till Morio's oath a full belief commands;
No more he doubts, but thinks the tale sincere;
Nor dream'd that moderns would to falsehood swear.

His friend a while lamenting on the road,
Quoth Morio, “doctor, his preferment's good;
“That living well would suit—'sdeath, haste, begone,
“The bishop can't deny you; 'tis your own.”
Thoughtful the vicar sat—at length reply'd,
“Good is my aim, and charity my guide;
“With lib'ral hand to ease the widow's toil,
“Relieve the poor, and bid the wretched smile.
“For these I'll ask, to these the boon be giv'n,
“This all my wish, then grant it bounteous heav'n.”
See then, by mild credulity betray'd,
The common failing of an honest head;
The priest with diligence, not haste, proceed,
Half loth to plead his worth, or own his need.
Tim'rous, at length he beats the bishop's gate,
The bishop never made his clergy wait;
He enters, grave, and at the plenteous board
Sees the dead rector dining with my lord!
Amaz'd, asham'd, tho' conscious of no wrong,
He blushes, bows, and dines and holds his tongue;
Pours out a sober cup to church and king,
Nor wastes one thought upon the trifling thing;
A chearful hour he spends, serenely gay,
Then pays his compliments, and comes away.

Big with delight, exulting in the deed,
The beau thank'd nature for an able head;
The quaint deceit with transport fill'd his soul;
And pleas'd, he triumph'd o'er the musty fool;
O'er him and all, who sway'd by truth and sense,
Scorn such low arts, and hate to give offence.
“This head,” he cry'd, then smil'd, and cry'd again,
“This head was never known to think in vain.”

He could no more, for words are not design'd
To paint the raptures of th' unthinking mind.
But strait he glow'd a second prank to try,
Heated with wit's warm blood and victory.
So when a fox, with too much cunning wise,
Scorns the foul trap wherein his ruin lies;
By one attempt made bold, he quits his fear,
Nor dreads the loss of tail, or foot, or ear.
Dangling his cane he rode, then rais'd it high
Switch'd his gay prancer, and prepar'd to fly:
To fly, directed by his foolish brain,
Mad as his horse, and spungy as his cane;
Triumphant with his embryo scheme he glow'd,
While ideot laughter echo'd as he rode.

'Twas then sinister omens damp'd his soul,
The mock of sense, but terror of the fool;
His silken stockings luckless dirt besmear'd,
And cross the road the hated hare appear'd:
A boding raven on his golden hat
Discharg'd his load, and croak'd the threats of fate.
Yet not dismay'd, he keeps his purpose still,
For present joys o'erbalance future ill.

Now to the vicar's villa see him come,
A small, tho' neat, and well contented home;
Thither he flew, as one that flies for life,
And calls with earnest voice the vicar's wife.
Vicaria soon appear'd; “haste, haste,” he cries,
“In yonder road your helpless husband lies;
“His leg, alas! thrown by the found'ring jade;
“I saw him fall; oh! hasten to his aid!—
“I'll go myself,” he said; then turn'd his steed,
And urg'd the nimble beast with utmost speed.

She heard, astonish'd, the ambiguous tale;
The blood forsakes her cheeks, her spirits fail;
Convulsive conflicts tear her tender breast,
She sinks, she swoons, with thousand fears opprest;
Her maid, her neighbours fly to give her ease,
And try each art her sorrows to appease.

When men to serious follies will descend,
We know not where the sad effects may end;
A serious liar is a dang'rous thing,
Sharp is his poison, tho' conceal'd his sting.

At length reviv'd, she thus disclos'd her woe,
“Ah fatal tale, sad, unexpected blow!
“My husband lies—oh, agonizing grief!—
“In yonder road—haste, haste, to his relief.”—
Through all that heard, one common sorrow spread;
They mourn the living vicar as the dead:
And run in crowds to give him instant aid.
The grief was general; for in ev'ry plain,
A general blessing is an honest man.

Soft as the breezes moving on the sea,
When waves on waves in circling eddies play;
Sweet as the air, when Flora spreads around
Her balmy odours on the painted ground;
When teeming nature, with her genial pow'r,
Smells in the rose, and blooms in every flow'r:
So rural life has ev'ry charm to please,
Dear hours of genuine innocence and ease:
New beauties blossom as the old decay,
And big with pleasure day succeeds to day.
Can Morio then, midst scenes like these, delight,
Like a black mildew, to arise and blight?
Can Morio smile to pain an honest heart,
And cloud the calms which truth and worth impart!

But see, the storm is o'er, the priest appears,
And shouts of transport follow floods of tears:
The happy wife, with pleasure-melted eye,
Draws near, and kindly testifies her joy.
The tale was told; well pleas'd the priest reply'd,
“I envy not the victor's scheme, or pride;
“In thy concern a greater bliss I know,
“Than all his boasted cunning can bestow.”
But good Vicaria, born of gentle blood,
At Morio's bold affront with anger glow'd;
And with revenge inspir'd the ardent train;
But Morio absent, their revenge was vain:
Yet still the heroine bade the num'rous band
Keep instruments of discipline in hand.
So on the seas, no Gallic foe in view,
Rides Britain's fleet, and burns the British crew
For future combat, with true courage fir'd,
Such as by Anson, Warren, Hawke inspir'd.

Seven days were past, when rose the eighth great light,
Big with the fate of Morio, and of wit.
Vicaria with delight that morning view'd,
For all her omens and her dreams were good:
And now th' auspicious day was almost spent,
Ordain'd to perfect the renown'd event;
When Morio, by his evil genius led,
Genteely cant'ring towards the village sped.
With transport she beheld, and out she flies,
While her shrill voice re-echoes to the skies;
Quick at her call the villagers appear,
Morio rode on, nor knew the danger near;
Amaz'd he saw unnumber'd plowmen stand,
Grasping their long thong'd whips with threatning hand:

Amaz'd he heard incessant clamours sound,
And wit, revenge, and Morio echo round.
But what were plowmen, whips and clamorous tongues,
To the dread lashing of the cracking thongs!
Flight was his only hope, he spurr'd his horse,
The victors, thronging round, oppose his course.
Pastorio—give him to the trump of fame,
While stands the village, live the hero's name;—
Pastorio first, disdaining distant war,
Rush'd to his side, and with a manly air,
Seiz'd his neat leg, and dragg'd him to the ground;
When fix'd on vengeance croud the women round.
What tongue can e'er recount, what numbers tell,
The thousand blows that on the witling fell;
In vain he pray'd, in vain he begg'd relief,
The laughing clowns to all his cries were deaf;
Nor pity felt for coat all silver'd o'er:—
Alas, what muse th' affliction can deplore!
Strange that for lace no pity they express,
No kind regard for such a shining dress!

Such was his fate; and now revenge's fire
Began to languish, and their rage to tire:
When thus Vicaria, with contented look,
And heart benevolent, the crowd bespoke:
The crowd all listen'd, while two sturdy swains
Held fast poor Morio, trembling with his pains;
“Friends, neighbours, all, with pleasure I survey
“The great event of this auspicious day;
“My hopes are gain'd, and all my wishes crown'd,
“Folly's vain son a due reward has found.
“Wits hence shall learn to dread their serious lies,
“To cheat the honest, and to bite the wise;

“Wits reign shall cease, for all her sons shall know,
“Sense, soon or late, retorts a vengeful blow;
“Sense soon or late, shall o'er their follies soar,
“And Morio's fate be sung till witlings be no more.”
She ceas'd—A jolly farmer's wife reply'd,
Laughing, her hands held either shaking side;
Attention listen'd to the merry dame,
While thus with rosy looks, she spoke her scheme:
“Poor youth, I know not but this cruel strife
“May cost him dear, may rob him of his life:
“If thus, besmear'd with dirt, from hence we send him,
“Let us have pity—to yon well attend him;
“There wash him clean—this kindness will repay
“His former ills, and wipe his rage away.”

She laugh'd aloud; they heard the scheme well pleas'd,
When from his dirty bed the youth was rais'd:
All pale he stood, he knew not what they meant,
Vainly entreating, trembling for th' event.
Sad sight, behold the queue behind undone,
His hair dishevell'd, and his beaver gone:
His shirt all black; the dirt conceal'd the lace,
And help'd to shew the whiteness of his face.
Thus in the shades below, dread realms of night,
Deiphobus surpriz'd the Trojan's sight;
With wounds all cover'd o'er the hero stood,
While pale Æneas trembled as he view'd.

But now, my muse, contract thy tedious song,
Patience must tire whene'er a tale's too long;
Suffice it in the bucket he was laid,
Thrice duck'd, and thrice uprear'd his weeping head.
The vicar, with his pipe, stood looking on,
And soberly advis'd them to have done:
They all obey'd, the witling was releas'd,
And, with Vicaria, all the village pleas'd.