The Village Preacher

Dear Fanatic/Lunatic/Dramatic Readers.

Below is a lovely poem(at least this is what I think :P ).

I kind of spotted this by chance or (by luck) in my in-box today. (forwarded by a good friend from Germany).

So thought of  sharing with you all , off course with due respect to Mr Oliver Smith :


The Village Preacher

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d,
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 wish’d to change, his place
Unpractis’d he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;
Far 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 child their wanderings, but reliev’d their pain;
The long-remember’d beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow’d;
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 showered 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,
He pity gave ere charity began.

Oliver Goldsmith