Classic Poem

A FRAGMENT .

O E'R the pale embers of a dying fire,
His little lamp fed with but little oil,
The Curate sat, (for scanty was his hire)
And ruminated sad the morrow's toil.

'Twas Sunday's eve, meet season to prepare
The stated lectures of the coming tide;
No day of rest to him — but day of care,
At many a Church to preach with tedious ride.

Before him spread his various sermons lay,
Of explanation deep and sage advice;
The harvest gain'd from many a thoughtful day,
The fruit of learning, bought with heavy price.

On these he cast a fond but tearful eye,
A while he paus'd, for sorrow stopp'd his throat,
Arous'd at length, he heav'd a bitter sigh,
And thus complain'd, as well indeed he mote:

" Hard is the scholar's lot, condemn'd to sail
Unpatroniz'd o'er life's tempestuous wave;
Clouds blind his sight; nor blows a friendly gale,
To waft him to one port — except the grave.

" Big with presumptive hope, I launch'd my keel,
With youthful ardour and bright science fraught; —
Unanxious of the pains, long doom'd to feel,
Unthinking that the voyage might end in nought.

" Pleas'd on the summer-sea I danced a-while,
With gay companions, and with views as fair;
Outstripp'd by these, I'm left to humble toil,
My fondest hope abandon'd in despair.

" Had my ambitious mind been led to rise
To highest flights, to crosier and to pall,
Scarce could I mourn the missing of the prize,
For soaring wishes well deserve their fall.

" No towering thoughts like these engag'd my breast,
I hop'd (nor blame, ye proud, the lowly plan)
Some little cove, some parsonage of rest,
The scheme of duty suited to the man;

" Where, in my narrow sphere secure, at ease,
From vile dependence free, I might remain,
The guide to good, the counsellor of peace,
The friend, the shepherd, of the village swain.

" Yet cruel fate denied the small request,
And bound me fast, in one ill-omen'd hour,
Beyond the chance of remedy, to rest
The slave of wealthy pride and priestly pow'r.

" Oft as in russet weeds I scour along,
In distant chapels hastily to pray,
By nod scarce notic'd of the passing throng,
" 'Tis but the Curate , " every child will say.

" Nor circumscrib'd in dignity alone
Do I my rich superior's vassal ride:
Sad penury, as was in cottage known,
With all its frowns, does o'er my roof preside.

" Ah! not for me the harvest yields its store,
The bough-crown'd shock in vain attracts mine eye;
To labour doom'd, and destin'd to be poor,
I pass the field, I hope not envious, by.

" When at the altar, surplice-clad, I stand,
The bridegroom's joy draws forth the golden fee;
The gift I take, but dare not close my hand;
The splendid present centres not in me."