The village all declared how much he knew: 
  ’Twas certain he could write, and cypher[17] too;
  Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,[18]
  And even the story ran that he could gauge:[19] 210
  In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
  For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;
  While words of learned length and thundering sound
  Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
  And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 215
  That one small head could carry all he knew.

  But past is all his fame.  The very spot
  Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
  Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
  Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220
  Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
  Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
  Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
  And news much older than their ale went round. 
  Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225
  The parlor splendors of that festive place: 
  The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
  The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
  The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
  A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230
  The pictures placed for ornament and use,
  The twelve good rules,[20] the royal game of goose;
  The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
  With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;
  While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, 235
  Ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row.

  Vain transitory splendors! could not all
  Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
  Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
  An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart. 240
  Thither no more the peasant shall repair
  To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
  No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,
  No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail;
  No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245
  Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
  The host himself no longer shall be found
  Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
  Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,
  Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250

  Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
  These simple blessings of the lowly train;
  To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
  One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
  Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 255
  The soul adopts, and owns their firstborn sway;
  Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,
  Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
  But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
  With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed—­ 260
  In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
  The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
  And, e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,
  The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.