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WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

1802-1839

670                                                The Vicar

SOME years ago, ere time and taste
  Had turnd our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
  And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way, between
  St. Marys Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,
  And guided to the Parsons wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
  Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,
  Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
  Upon the parlour steps collected,
Waggd all their tails, and seemd to say
  Our master knows youyoure expected.
Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
  Uprose the Doctors winsome marrow;
The lady laid her knitting down,
  Her husband claspd his ponderous Barrow;
Whateer the strangers caste or creed,
  Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
  And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reachd his journeys end,
  And warmd himself in Court or College,
He had not gained an honest friend
  And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,
If he departed as he came,
  With no new light on love or liquor,
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
  And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.
His talk was like a spring, which runs
  With rapid change from rocks to roses:
It slipped from politics to puns,
  It passed from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep
  The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
  For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound Divine,
  Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
  He stablishd Truth, or startled Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
  The Deist sighd with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
  And dreamd of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermons never said or showd
  That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
  From Jerome or from Athanasius:
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
  The hand and head that pennd and plannd them,
For all who understood admired,
  And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
  Small treatises, and smaller verses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
  And hints to noble Lordsand nurses;
True histories of last years ghost,
  Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,
  And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,
  Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
  Although he had a taste for smoking;
And when religious sects ran mad,
  He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a mans belief is bad,
  It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
  In the low hut or garnishd cottage,
And praise the farmers homely wit,
  And share the widows homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild;
  And when his hand unbarrd the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled
  The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me
  Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus;
From him I learnt the rule of three,
  Cats cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus:
I used to singe his powderd wig,
  To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig,
  When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look
  For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
  The trees I climbd, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before;
  You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more,
  And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicars seat: youll hear
  The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
  Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?look down,
  And construe on the slab before you,
Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN,
  Vir nullânon donandus lauru
.

 

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