<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395911" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter III: The Vicar--The Curate</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE VICAR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHERE ends our chancel in a vaulted space,<br>Sleep the departed Vicars of the place;<br>Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past -<br>But take a slight memorial of the last.<br>To what famed college we our Yicar owe,<br>To what fair county, let historians show:<br>Few now remember when the mild young man,<br>Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;<br>Few live to speak of that soft soothing look<br>He cast around, as he prepared his book;<br>It was a kind of supplicating smile,<br>But nothing hopeless of applause the while;<br>And when he finished, his corrected pride<br>Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied.<br>Thus he his race began, and to the end<br>His constant care was, no man to offend;<br>No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind;<br>Nor urged the Priest to leave the Flock behind;<br>He was his Master's Soldier, but not one<br>To lead an army of his Martyrs on:<br>Fear was his ruling passion; yet was Love,<br>Of timid kind, once known his heart to move;<br>It led his patient spirit where it paid<br>Its languid offerings to a listening Maid:<br>She, with her widow'd Mother, heard him speak,<br>And sought awhile to find what he would seek:<br>Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,<br>And paid the same attention to the two;<br>Meeting and parting without joy or pain,<br>He seem'd to come that he might go again.<br>The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,<br>At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice;<br>She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace,<br>That she must turn and meet him in the chase:<br>This not approving, she withdrew, till one<br>Came who appear'd with livelier hope to run;<br>Who sought a readier way the heart to move,<br>Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love.<br>Accuse me not that I approving paint<br>Impatient Hope or Love without restraint;<br>Or think the Passions, a tumultuous throng,<br>Strong as they are, ungovernably strong:<br>But is the laurel to the soldier due,<br>Who, cautious, comes not into danger's view?<br>What worth has Virtue by Desire untried,<br>When Nature's self enlists on Duty's side?<br>The married dame in vain assail'd the truth<br>And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth;<br>But with the daughter of the Priest of On<br>The love was lawful, and the guard was gone;<br>But Joseph's fame had lessened in our view,<br>Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.<br>Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,<br>As once rejecting what his heart desired;<br>'I am escaped,' he said, when none pursued;<br>When none attack'd him, 'I am unsubdued;'<br>'Oh pleasing pangs of love!' he sang again,<br>Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.<br>E'en in his age would he address the young,<br>'I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;'<br>But from the time he left his favourite maid,<br>To ancient females his devoirs were paid:<br>And still they miss him after Morning-prayer;<br>Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,<br>Where kindred spirits in his praise agree,<br>A happy few, as mild and cool as he;<br>The easy followers in the female train,<br>Led without love, and captives without chain.<br>Ye Lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,<br>While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip;<br>Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,<br>Kitchen cabals, and nursery-mishaps),<br>If the vast world may not some scene produce,<br>Some state where your small talents might have use;<br>Within seraglios you might harmless move,<br>'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love;<br>There from too daring man the treasures guard,<br>An easy duty, and its own reward;<br>Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save<br>From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave.<br>But let applause be dealt in all we may,<br>Our Priest was cheerful, and in season gay;<br>His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;<br>Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease:<br>To a small garden with delight he came,<br>And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;<br>These he presented, with a grace his own,<br>To his fair friends, and made their beauties known,<br>Not without moral compliment; how they<br>'Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay.'<br>Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,<br>Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;<br>A cunning never to dishonour lent,<br>And rather for defence than conquest meant;<br>'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,<br>But not enough to make him enemies;<br>He ever aim'd to please; and to offend<br>Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend;<br>Yet for the friendship never much would pay,<br>Content to bow, be silent, and obey,<br>And by a soothing suff'rance find his way.<br>Fiddling and fishing were his arts: at times<br>He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;<br>And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,<br>Oft he amused with riddles and charades.<br>Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse<br>But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:<br>Kind his opinions; he would not receive<br>An ill report, nor evil act believe;<br>'If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small<br>Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all.'<br>If ever fretful thought disturb'd his breast,<br>If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd,<br>It sprang from innovation; it was then<br>He spake of mischief made by restless men:<br>Not by new doctrines: never in his life<br>Would he attend to controversial strife;<br>For sects he cared not; ' They are not of us,<br>Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;<br>But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel;<br>Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal:<br>Not at the altar our young brethren read<br>(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;<br>But at their duty, in their desks they stand,<br>With naked surplice, lacking hood and band:<br>Churches are now of holy song bereft,<br>And half our ancient customs changed or left;<br>Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,<br>Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;<br>Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain<br>Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain<br>Comes flying forth from aisle to aisle about,<br>Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out.'<br>These were to him essentials; all things new<br>He deemed superfluous, useless, or untrue:<br>To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,<br>Here the fire kindled, and the woe was told.<br>Habit with him was all the test of truth:<br>'It must be right: I've done it from my youth.'<br>Questions he answer'd in as brief a way:<br>'It must be wrong--it was of yesterday.'<br>Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd,<br>'Twas but by wishes or by words expressed.<br>Circles in water, as they wider flow,<br>The less conspicuous in their progress grow,<br>And when at last they touch upon the shore,<br>Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.<br>His love, like that last circle, all embraced,<br>But with effect that never could be traced.<br>Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best,<br>Proclaim his life t'have been entirely rest;<br>Free from all evils which disturb his mind<br>Whom studies vex and controversies blind.<br>The rich approved,--of them in awe he stood;<br>The poor admired,--they all believed him good;<br>The old and serious of his habits spoke;<br>The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;<br>Mothers approved a safe contented guest,<br>And daughters one who back'd each small request;<br>In him his flock found nothing to condemn;<br>Him sectaries liked,--he never troubled them:<br>No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,<br>And all his passions sunk in early ease;<br>Nor one so old has left this world of sin,<br>More like the being that he entered in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE CURATE.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">ASK you what lands our Pastor tithes?--Alas!<br>But few our acres, and but short our grass:<br>In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,<br>May roll the single cow or favourite steed;<br>Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,<br>His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green;<br>But these, our hilly heath and common wide<br>Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;<br>No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,<br>For here we plough the ocean, not the land;<br>Still reason wills that we our Pastor pay,<br>And custom does it on a certain day:<br>Much is the duty, small the legal due,<br>And this with grateful minds we keep in view;<br>Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,<br>Some by the thought that all men must be fed;<br>Duty and love, and piety and pride,<br>Have each their force, and for the Priest provide.<br>Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe<br>Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;<br>All see him poor, but e'en the vulgar know<br>He merits love, and their respect bestow.<br>A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,<br>Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he; -<br>Not grieved by years alone; though his appear<br>Dark and more dark; severer on severe:<br>Not in his need,--and yet we all must grant<br>How painful 'tis for feeling Age to want:<br>Nor in his body's sufferings; yet we know<br>Where Time has ploughed, there Misery loves to sow;<br>But in the wearied mind, that all in vain<br>Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.<br>His father saw his powers--'I give,' quoth he,<br>'My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be:'<br>Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!<br>But all he had: --he learn'd, and was undone!<br>Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,<br>Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,<br>Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,<br>And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.<br>He once had hope--Hope, ardent, lively, light;<br>His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:<br>Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,<br>Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note.<br>At morn, at evening, at his work was he,<br>And dream'd what his Euripides would be.<br>Then care began: --he loved, he woo'd, he wed;<br>Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed -<br>A curate's bed ! then came the woeful years;<br>The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;<br>A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd<br>With wants and woes--by daily cares perplex'd;<br>No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,<br>But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.<br>A kind physician, and without a fee,<br>Gave his opinion--'Send her to the sea.'<br>'Alas!' the good man answer'd, 'can I send<br>A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?<br>No; I must with her, in her need, repair<br>To that new place; the poor lie everywhere; -<br>Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:' -<br>He said, he came, and here he yet remains.<br>Behold his dwelling! this poor hut he hires,<br>Where he from view, though not from want, retires;<br>Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,<br>Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;<br>All join their efforts, and in patience learn<br>To want the comforts they aspire to earn;<br>For the sick mother something they'd obtain,<br>To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;<br>For the sad father something they'd procure<br>To ease the burden they themselves endure.<br>Virtues like these at once delight and press<br>On the fond father with a proud distress;<br>On all around he looks with care and love,<br>Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.<br>Then from his care, his love, his grief, he steals,<br>And by himself an Author's pleasure feels:<br>Each line detains him; he omits not one,<br>And all the sorrows of his state are gone. -<br>Alas! even then, in that delicious hour,<br>He feels his fortune, and laments its power.<br>Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,<br>Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and page;<br>Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,<br>Some surly message he has heard before,<br>Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.<br>An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,<br>Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud;<br>The elder daughter meekly makes him way -<br>'I want my money, and I cannot stay:<br>My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;<br>Go tell your father he must raise the wind:'<br>Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid<br>Says, 'Sir! my father!'--and then stops afraid:<br>E'en his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears<br>Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;<br>His stubborn features half admit a smile,<br>And his tone softens--'Well! I'll wait awhile.'<br>Pity! a man so good, so mild, so meek,<br>At such an age, should have his bread to seek;<br>And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread.<br>That are more harrowing than the want of bread;<br>Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace!<br>And say that want and insolence shall cease?<br>'But why not publish?'--those who know too well,<br>Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell;<br>Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,<br>Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;<br>The hope of fame may in his heart have place,<br>But he has dread and horror of disgrace;<br>Nor has he that confiding, easy way,<br>That might his learning and himself display;<br>But to his work he from the world retreats,<br>And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.<br>But see! the Man himself; and sure I trace<br>Signs of new joy exulting in that face<br>O'er care that sleeps--we err, or we discern<br>Life in thy looks--the reason may we learn?<br>'Yes,' he replied, 'I'm happy, I confess,<br>To learn that some are pleased with happiness<br>Which others feel--there are who now combine<br>The worthiest natures in the best design,<br>To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine.<br>We who more keenly feel the world's contempt,<br>And from its miseries are the least exempt;<br>Now Hope shall whisper to the wounded breast<br>And Grief, in soothing expectation, rest.<br>'Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,<br>Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal;<br>Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make<br>The needy curse the benefits they take;<br>Not with the idle vanity that knows<br>Only a selfish joy when it bestows;<br>Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,<br>Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;<br>But these are men who yield such blest relief,<br>That with the grievance they destroy the grief;<br>Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,<br>Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;<br>There is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise<br>Him whom it aids; their charity is praise;<br>A common bounty may relieve distress,<br>But whom the vulgar succour they oppress;<br>This though a favour is an honour too,<br>Though Mercy's duty, yet 'tis Merit's due;<br>When our relief from such resources rise,<br>All painful sense of obligation dies;<br>And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,<br>For 'tis their offerings, not their alms we take.<br>'Long may these founts of Charity remain,<br>And never shrink, but to be fill'd again;<br>True! to the Author they are now confined,<br>To him who gave the treasure of his mind,<br>His time, his health,--and thankless found mankind:<br>But there is hope that from these founts may flow<br>A side-way stream, and equal good bestow;<br>Good that may reach us, whom the day's distress<br>Keeps from the fame and perils of the Press;<br>Whom Study beckons from the Ills of Life,<br>And they from Study; melancholy strife!<br>Who then can say, but bounty now so free,<br>And so diffused, may find its way to me?<br>'Yes! I may see my decent table yet<br>Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt;<br>May talk of those to whom so much we owe,<br>And guess their names whom yet we may not know;<br>Blest, we shall say, are those who thus can give,<br>And next who thus upon the bounty live;<br>Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal.<br>And feel so well--Oh, God! how shall I feel!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395911" data-title="The Borough. Letter III: The Vicar--The Curate de George Crabbe" data-description="THE VICAR. WHERE ends our chancel in a vaulted space, Sleep the departed Vicars of the place; Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past - But take a slight memorial of the last. To what famed college we our Yicar owe, To what fair county, le..."></div> </div> </div>

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