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.
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learnt to prize;
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Thus to relieve the wretched oft he tried,
And e'en 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 her 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.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given;
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
ON Linden, where the snow was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night;
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of the scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade;
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of strewèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the wet clouds rolling down;
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens: on the brave
Rush to vain glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's cemetery.
CEASE here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother drowned in woe;
Now thy kind caresses pain me:
Morn advances, let me go.
See yon orient streak appearing!
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away.
Lately launched, a trembling stranger,
On the world's wide boisterous flood;
Pierced with sorrows, tossed with danger,
Gladly I return to GOD.
my cries shall cease to grieve thee,
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillow than thy breast.
Weep not o'er these eyes that languish,
Upward turning to their home;
Raptured, they'll forget all anguish,
While they wait to see thee come.
There, my mother, pleasures centre;
Weeping, parting, care, or woe,
Ne'er our FATHER'S house shall enter:
Morn advances; let me go.
As through this calm, this holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath
To an everlasting morning,
Gently close my eyes in death.
Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
Though no language yet possessing,
Breathes my spirit ere we part.
Yet to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
Though again His voice I hear:
Rise! may every grace attend thee!
Rise! and soon thou'lt meet me there.
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