Took him a comely and a courteous lass;
Simple and civil, loving and beloved,
She long a fond and faithful partner proved;
In every year the elders and the priest
Were duly summon’d to a christening feast;
Nor came a babe, but by his growing trade
John had provision for the coming made;
For friends and strangers all were pleased to deal
With one whose care was equal to his zeal. 
   In human friendships, it compels a sigh
To think what trifles will dissolve the tie. 
John, now become a master of his trade,
Perceived how much improvement might be made;
And as this prospect open’d to his view,
A certain portion of his zeal withdrew;
His fear abated—­“What had he to fear —
His profits certain, and his conscience clear?”
Above his door a board was placed by John,
And “Dighton, Stationer,” was gilt thereon;
His window next, enlarged to twice the size,
Shone with such trinkets as the simple prize;
While in the shop with pious works were seen
The last new play, review, or magazine: 
In orders punctual, he observed—­“The books
He never read, and could he judge their looks? 
Readers and critics should their merits try,
He had no office but to sell and buy;
Like other traders, profit was his care;
Of what they print, the authors must beware.” 
He held his patrons and his teachers dear,
But with his trade they must not interfere. 
   ’Twas certain now that John had lost the dread
And pious thoughts that once such terrors bred;
His habits varied, and he more inclined
To the vain world, which he had half resign’d;
He had moreover in his brethren seen,
Or he imagined, craft, conceit, and spleen: 
“They are but men,” said John, “and shall I then
Fear man’s control, or stand in awe of men? 
’Tis their advice (their Convert’s rule and law),
And good it is—­I will not stand in awe.” 
   Moreover Dighton, though he thought of books
As one who chiefly on the title looks,
Yet sometimes ponder’d o’er a page to find,
When vex’d with cares, amusement for his mind;
And by degrees that mind had treasured much
From works his teachers were afraid to touch: 
Satiric novels, poets bold and free,
And what their writers term philosophy;
All these were read, and he began to feel
Some self-approval on his bosom steal. 
Wisdom creates humility, but he
Who thus collects it will not humble be: 
No longer John was fill’d with pure delight
And humble reverence in a pastor’s sight;
Who, like a grateful zealot, listening stood,
To hear a man so friendly and so good;
But felt the dignity of one who made
Himself important by a thriving trade: 
And growing pride in Dighton’s mind was bred
By the strange food on which it coarsely fed. 
   Their Brother’s fall the grieving Brethren heard —
His pride indeed to all around appeared;
The world, his friends agreed, had won the soul