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The Country Clergyman Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d and still where many a garden flower grown wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, Nor e’er had chang’d nor wish’d to change his place, Unpractis’d he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; For other aims his heart had learn’d to prize, More skill’d to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand’rings, but relieved their pain; The long remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending, swept his aged breast; The ruin’d spendthrift now no longer proud, Claim’d kindred there, and had his claim allowed The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder’d his crutch, and shewed how fields were won, Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, And quit forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.