Of

A GOOD PARSON.

A parish priest was of the pilgrim train; An awful, reverend, and religious man. His eyes diffused a venerable grace, And charity itself was in his face. Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, } (As God had clothed his own ambassador;) } For such on earth his blessed Redeemer bore. } Of sixty years he seemed, and well might last To sixty more, but that he lived too fast; Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense, And made almost a sin of abstinence. Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, But such a face as promised him sincere; Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity; Mild was his accent, and his action free. With eloquence innate his tongue was armed, Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed. For, letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky; And oft, with holy hymns, he charmed their ears, (A music more melodious than the spheres,) For David left him, when he went to rest, His lyre; and after him he sung the best. He bore his great commission in his look, But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke. He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell, } And warned the sinner with becoming zeal; } But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. } He taught the gospel rather than the law, And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw. For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat, Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat. To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard, Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared; But when the milder beams of mercy play, He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away. Lightnings and thunder, (heaven's artillery,) As harbingers before the Almighty fly: Those but proclaim his style, and disappear; The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there. The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took, But never sued, or cursed with bell and book; With patience bearing wrong, but offering none, Since every man is free to lose his own. The country churls, according to their kind, (Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,) The less he sought his offerings, pinched the more, And praised a priest contented to be poor. Yet of his little he had some to spare, To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare; For mortified he was to that degree, A poorer than himself he would not see. True priests, he said, and preachers of the word, Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord; Nothing was theirs, but all the public store; Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor; Who, should they steal, for want of his relief, He judged himself accomplice with the thief. Wide was his parish; not contracted close In streets, but here and there a straggling house; Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, to succour the distressed; Tempting on foot alone, without affright, The dangers of a dark tempestuous night. All this, the good old man performed alone, Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none. Nor durst he trust another with his care; Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair, To chaffer for preferment with his gold, Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold; But duly watched his flock by night and day, } And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey, } And hungry sent the wily fox away. } The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered; Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared. His preaching much, but more his practice wrought; (A living sermon of the truths he taught;) For this by rules severe his life he squared, That all might see the doctrine which they heard. For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest; (The gold of heaven, who bear the God impressed;) But when the precious coin is kept unclean, The Sovereign's image is no longer seen. If they be foul on whom the people trust, Well may the baser brass contract a rust. The prelate, for his holy life he prized; The worldly pomp of prelacy despised; His Saviour came not with a gaudy show, Nor was his kingdom of the world below. Patience in want, and poverty of mind, } These marks of church and churchmen he designed, } And living taught, and dying left behind. } The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn; In purple he was crucified, not born. They, who contend for place and high degree, Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee. Not but he knew the signs of earthly power Might well become Saint Peter's successor; The Holy Father holds a double reign, The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. Such was the saint, who shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face. God saw his image lively was expressed; And his own work, as in creation, blessed. The tempter saw him too with envious eye, And, as on Job, demanded leave to try. He took the time when Richard was deposed, And high and low with happy Harry closed. This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood: Near though he was, yet not the next of blood. Had Richard, unconstrained, resigned the throne, } A king can give no more than is his own: } The title stood entailed, had Richard had a son. } Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside; Where all submitted, none the battle tried. The senseless plea of right by Providence Was, by a flattering priest, invented since; And lasts no longer than the present sway, But justifies the next who comes in play. The people's right remains; let those who dare Dispute their power, when they the judges are. He joined not in their choice, because he knew Worse might, and often did, from change ensue. Much to himself he thought, but little spoke; And, undeprived, his benefice forsook. Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretched, And like a primitive apostle preached. Still cheerful; ever constant to his call; By many followed; loved by most, admired by all. With what he begged, his brethren he relieved, And gave the charities himself received; Gave, while he taught; and edified the more, Because he shewed, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor. He went not, with the crowd, to see a shrine; But fed us, by the way, with food divine. In deference to his virtues, I forbear To shew you what the rest in orders were: This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright, He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.

FABLES.

TRANSLATIONS FROM BOCCACE.

SIGISMONDA AND GUISCARDO.

This celebrated tale was probably taken by Boccacio from some ancient chronicle or traditional legend. It excited great attention among the learned of his time, and was translated into Latin by Leonardo Aretino. Francesco di Michele Accolti de Arezzo, who was accounted one of the best civilians of his age, rendered into Italian verse the lamentation of Sigismonda over her lover's heart; and the learned Philip Beroald made a Latin poetical version of the whole fable. Translations and imitations without number have been executed in foreign languages, without mentioning the tragedies which have been founded upon it. In England, the story was translated and versified in the octave stanza by William Walter, a follower of Sir Henry Marney, chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster. A prose translation is to be found in Painter's "Palace of Pleasure;" and the tale being wrought into a tragedy by Robert Wilmot and others, was presented before Queen Elizabeth, at the Inner Temple, in 1568. Dryden will not readily be suspected of deriving much aid from his black-lettered predecessors. He made Boccacio's story his own, and told it in his own way. One gross fault he has engrafted upon his original; I mean the coarseness of Sigismonda's character, whose love is that of temperament, not of affection. This error, grounded upon Dryden's false view of the passion and of the female character, and perhaps arising from the depravity of the age rather than of the poet, pervades and greatly injures the effect of the tale. Yet it is more than counterbalanced by preponderating beauties. Without repeating the praise, elsewhere given to the majesty of the poet's versification, and which this piece alone would be sufficient to justify, the reader's attention may be solicited to the colours with which Dryden has drawn a mind wrought up to the highest pitch of despair. Sigismonda is placed in that situation, in which, above all others, the human disposition seems to acquire a sort of supernatural strength or obstinacy: for although guilty of a crime, she is punished in a degree far exceeding the measure of the offence. In such a situation, that acuteness of feeling, which would otherwise waste itself in fluctuations betwixt shame, fear, and remorse, is willingly and eagerly turned into the channel of resistance and recrimination; and perhaps no readier mode can be discovered of hardening the human heart, even to the consistence of the nether millstone. It is in this state, that Sigismonda resolutely, and even joyfully, embraces death, in order to punish her father, and rejoin her lover. The previous arguments with Tancred, sufficiently, and, in the circumstances, naturally, intimate the tone of her mind, and are a striking instance of Dryden's power in painting passion wrought up to desperation.

The scene is laid in the middle ages, when the principality of Salerno was ruled by a dynasty of Norman princes, deriving their family from the celebrated Robert de Guiscard.