CANTO

20

Nay, he would sometimes on her gaze | Where he in comfort may regale,

With the fond looks of former days;
And, whatsoe'er she did or said,
He kept his silence and obey'd.
Besides his mind he thus consol'd;
"Tis classical to be a scold:
For, as the ancient tomes record,
Zantippe's tongue was like a sword:
She was about my Dolly's age,
And the known help-mate of a sage.
Thus Socrates, in days of yore,
The self-same persecution bore:
Nor shall I blush to share the fate
Of one so good-of one so great.”

'Twas now five days since they had
parted,

And he was ever tender-hearted:
Whene'er he heard the wretched sigh,
He felt a Christian sympathy;
For though he play'd the demi-god
Among his boys, with rule and rod;
What! though he spoke in pompous
phrase,

And kept the vulgar in amaze;
Though self-important he would stride
Along the street with priestly pride;
Though his strange figure would pro-
voke

The passing smile, the passing joke;
Among the high, or with the low,
Syntax had never made a foe;
And, though the jest of all he knew,
Yet, while they laugh'd they lov'd
him too:

No wonder then, so far from home,
His head would shake, the sigh would

come.

Thus he went gently on his way,
Till the sun mark'd declining day.

But Thought as well as grief is dry,
And, lo! a friendly cot was nigh,
Whose sign, high dangling in the air,
Invites the trav'ller to repair,

With cooling pipe and foaming ale.
The Doctor gave the loud command,
And sees the Host beside him stand;
Then quits his steed with usual state,
And passes through the wicket-gate;
The Hostess opes the willing door,
And then recounts the humble store
Which her poor cottage could afford,
To place upon the frugal board.
The home-spun napkin soon was laid,
The table all its ware display'd:
The well-broil'd rasher then appear'd,
And with fresh eggs his stomach
cheer'd;

The crusty pie, with apples lin❜d,
Sweeten'd the feast on which he din'd,
And liquor, that was brew'd at home,
Among the rest was seen to foam.
The Doctor drank-the Doctor eat,
Well pleas'd to find so fair a treat;
Then to his pipe he kindly took,
And with a condescending look,
Call'd on the Hostess to relate
What was the village name and state;
And to whose office it was given
To teach them all the way to Heav'n.

HOSTESS.

The land belongs to 'Squire Bounty,
No better man lives in the county:
I wish the Rector were the same;
One Doctor Squees'em is his name;
But we ne'er see him-more's the

shame ?

And while in wealth he cuts and carves,

The worthy Curate prays and starves.

SYNTAX.

I truly wish that he were here
To take a pipe and share my beer;
I know what 'tis as well as he,
To serve a man I never see.

Just as he spoke, the Curate came: "This, this is he!" exclaim'd the dame. Syntax his brother Parson greeted, And begg'd him to be quickly seated; "Come, take a pipe, and taste the liquor, 'Tis good enough for any Vicar."

CURATE.

Alas! Sir, I'm no Vicar:-I,
Bou id to an humble Curacy,
With all my care can scarce contrive
To keep my family alive.
While the fat Rector can afford
To eat and drink like any Lord:
But know, Sir, I'm a man of letters,
And ne'er speak evil of my betters.

SYNTAX.

He'd grant the favour I implore,
Nor let me starve upon threescore.

SYNTAX.

Now I should like without delay, To hear what this rich man could say; For I can well perceive, my friend, That you did not obtain your end.

CURATE.

The postman soon a letter brought, Which cost me sixpence and a groat: Nor can your friendly heart suggest The rudeness which the page express'd. "Such suits as yours may well miscarry,

For beggars should not dare to marry;
At least, for I will not deceive you,

That's good;-but when we suffer I never, never will relieve you;

And if you trouble me, be sure
You shall be ousted from the Cure."
But I shall now, good Sir, refrain,
Because I know 'twould give you
pain,

From telling all that in his spite,
The arch old scoundrel chose to write;
For know, Sir, I'm a man of letters,
And never will abuse my betters.

SYNTAX. [swear,
Zounds!-'tis enough to make one
Nor can I such a monster bear:
But, think, my friend, on that great day
Of strict account, when he must pay
For all his cruelty and lies:-
Then he shall sink, and you will rise.
[civil,

CURATE.

The terms, I own, are not quite But he's the offspring of the devil; And, when the day of life is past, He'll with his father dwell at last; But know, Sir, I'm a man of letters, And ne'er wish evil to my betters.

'Twas thus they talk'd and drank

their ale,

Till the dim shades of eve prevail;

When Syntax settled each demand:
And, while he held the Curate's hand,
Bid him be stout, and not despair:
"The poor are God's peculiar care :
You're not the only one, my friend,
Who has with evil to contend:
Resign yourself to what is given:
Begood, and leave the rest to Heaven."
Syntax, we've said, was tender heart-
ed;-

He dropp'd a tear, and then departed.
The evening lower'd,-a drizzly
rain

Had spread a mist o'er all the plain:
Besides, the home-brew'd beer began
To prey upon the inward man:
And Syntax, muddled, did not know
Or where he was, or where to go.
An active horseman by him trotted,
And Syntax was not so besotted
But he could hiccup out, "My friend,
Do tell me if this way will tend
To bring me to some place of rest ?"
"Yes,"

,"twas replied "the very best
Of all our inns, within a mile,
Will soon your weariness beguile.”
Who should this be but 'Squire Bounty,
So much belov'd throughout the

county,

And he resolv'd, by way of jest,
To have the Parson for his guest;
So on he gallopp'd to prepare
His people for the friendly snare.
The Doctor came in tipsy state;
The 'Squire receiv'd him at the gate,
And to a parlour led him straight;
Then plac'd him in an easy chair,
And ask'd to know his pleasure there.

SYNTAX.

And tell the ostler to take care
Of that good beast, my Grizzle mare;
And what your larder can afford,
Pray place it quickly on the board.
'SQUIRE.

We've butcher's meat of ev'ry kind;
But, if that is not to your mind,
There's poultry, Sir, and if you please,
Our cook excels in fricasees.

SYNTAX.

Tell me, my honest friend, I pray,
What kind of fowl or fish are they?
Besides, my very civil Host,
I wish to know what they will cost;
For a poor Parson can't afford
To live on dainties like a Lord.
'SQUIRE.

The Clergy, Sir, when here they stay,
Are never, never ask'd to pay :
I love the Church, and, for its sake,
I ne'er make bills or reck'nings take:
Proud if its ministers receive
The little that I have to give.

I find my
head's not very clear;
My eyes see double, too, I fear;
For all these things can never be
Prepar'd for such a guest as me:
A banquet it must be allow'd,
Of which Olympus might be proud.
Thus Syntax eat and drank his fill,
Regardless of the morrow's bill;

Landlord, I'm sadly splash'd with He rang the bell, and call'd the wait-
mire

ers,

And chill'd with rain, so light a fire; To rid him of his shoes and gaiters.