[THE CURATE’S PROGRESS.]
Near forty years with all my Care and Skill,
Dear Flock, I fed you, as I feed you still.
Tho’ mine at first was but the Curate’s fare—
Half full the Belly, and the Back half bare—
Yet, freed from College Rules and classic Song,
The light Heart laugh’d and the young hope rose strong,
And (wrapt in visions of preferment) found
No Grief in Want and from Contempt no wound.
In pride and pity when the Farmer gave
A Sunday’s Dinner to the Vicar’s slave, 10
And more than hinted from my languid Looks,
I fed the Six remaining Days on Books:
Patient I [star’d], and saw thro’ rolling years
His tith’d Sheaf humble thro’ its golden Ears;
Saw the proud Man of Land his Joke resign,
And labour for a Laugh to flatter mine.
[THE TASK.]
(Jan. 20) [1813?]
The Task is dull; but I was taught
Myself, and ’tis a debt I owe
To those who [seek the] truths I sought,
The Knowledge I have gain’d to shew.
In many a dull and drowsy lad
I strove to wake the slumbering Soul,
And raise what faculties he had
By patient Care and mild Controul.
And, when there came a sprightly boy,
As ardent was the Task; for still 10
He relished not the grave Employ,
Nor to his duty bent his Will.