"Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? —
" What! he, himself! — and is old  dead? "
His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay'd,
And rectors five to one close vault convey'd: —
But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,
And gain a mournful subject for my Muse:
His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore,
And kindly add, —" Heaven grant, I lose no more! "
Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance
Appear'd at variance with his complaisance:
For, as he told their fate and varying worth,
He archly look'd, —" I yet may bear thee forth. "
" When first "— (he so began) —" my trade I plied,
"Good master  was the parish-guide;
" His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear,
"His stride majestic, and his frown severe;
" A noble pillar of the church he stood,
"Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood:
" Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about,
"He fill'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out!
" But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer,
"He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair;
" For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased,
"Th' expecting people view'd their slumbering priest:
" Who, dozing, died. — Our Parson  was next;
"'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text;
" Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound;
"Ev'n me he mulct for my poor rood of ground;
" Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech,
"'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what I preach?'
" His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store)
"Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor;
" His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke;
"His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke:
" But though so young and blest with spirits high,
"He died as grave as any judge could die:
" The strong attack subdued his lively powers, —
"His was the grave, and Doctor  ours.