THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

(Oliver Goldsmith.)

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows 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 changed, nor wished to change, his
place.

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were

won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;

But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all :
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each heart, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the trembling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

OTHELLO.

ACT. I. SCENE III.-The Council Chamber.

Duke.

Senators sitting at a table.

Enter Brabantio, Othello, and others.

Why, what's the matter?

Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter!

Duke and Senators.

Bra.

Duke and

Dead?

Ay, to me;

She is abus'd, stol'n from me and corrupted

By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;
For nature so preposterously to err,-

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,-
Sans witchcraft could not.

Duke. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguil'd your daughter of herself,

And you of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,

After your own sense; yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.

Bra.

Humbly I thank your grace. Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems, Your special mandate, for the state affairs,

Hath hither brought.

Duke and Senators. We are very sorry for 't. Duke. [To Oth.] What, in your own part, can you say to this?

Bra. Nothing, but this is so.

Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv'd good masters,That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true! true, I have married her : The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace;

For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;

And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,
I won his daughter.

Bra.

A maiden never bold;

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself; and she,-in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything,—
To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!
It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect,
That will confess perfection so could err
Against all rules of nature; and must be driven
To find out practices of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again,
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect,
He wrought upon her.

Duke.

To vouch this is no proof,

Without more wider and more overt test
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming do prefer against him.
I Sen. But, Othello, speak:

Did you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?
Or came it by request, and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth?

Oth.

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father :
If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office, I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life.

Duke.

Fetch Desdemona hither.

Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the

place.--

[Exeunt Iago and Attendants]

And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.

Duke. Say it, Othello.

Oth. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me ;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field :

Of hair-breadth scapes i' th'imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portance. In my traveller's history,

(Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, [heaven,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch
It was my hint to speak),-such was my process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to to hear