From "The Deserted Village", 1770
Oliver Goldsmith
Preacher's Modest Mansion
Near Yonder copse, where once
the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden
flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs
the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest
mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country
dear,
And passing rich with forty
pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his
godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor
wished to change, his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek
for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the
varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had
learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the
wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the
vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but
relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was
his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his
aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no
longer proud,
Claimed kindred there and had his
claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly
bade to stay,
Sat by his fire and talked the
night away;
Wept o'er his wounds or tales of
sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch and
showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good
man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices
in their woe;
Careless their merits or their
faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity
began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was
his pride,
And even his failings leaned
to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every
call,
He watched and wept, he
prayed and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond
endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged
offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each
dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and
led the way.
Beside the bed where parting
life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by
turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood.
At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the
struggling soul;
Comfort came down the
trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents
whispered praise.
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