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us, to do gentle kindnesses, to succor with sweet charity, to soothe, caress, and forgive; to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy and the poor.W. M. Thackeray.

LXVII. - THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NE

EAR 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.

2. 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.

3. Unskillful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched, than to rise.

4. His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wand'rings, 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 claims allowed;

5. 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!

6. 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.

7. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even 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 :

8. And as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

9. 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 struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

10. 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.

11. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile;

12. 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;

13. 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.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

LXVIII. — THE DEATH OF DUROC.

DUR

UROC was Grand Marshal of the palace, and a bosom friend of the Emperor Napoleon. Of a noble and generous character, of unshaken integrity and patriotism, and firm as steel in the hour of danger, he was beloved by all who knew him. There was a gentleness about him and a purity of feeling which the life of a camp could never destroy.

2. Napoleon loved him,- for, through all the changes of his tumultuous life, he had ever found his affection and truth the same,- and it was with anxious heart and sad countenance that he entered the lowly cottage where he lay.

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3. His eyes were filled with tears, as he asked if there was hope. When told there was none, he advanced to the bedside without saying a word. The dying marshal seized him by the hand, and said, "My whole life has been consecrated to your service, and now my only regret is, that I can no longer be useful to you."

4. "Duroc!" replied Napoleon, with a voice choked with grief, "there is another life, there you will await me, and we shall meet again."'

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5. "Yes, sire," replied the fainting sufferer, "but thirty years shall first pass away, when you will have triumphed over your enemies, and realized all the hopes of our country. I have endeavored to be an honest man ; have nothing with which to reproach myself." He then added, with faltering voice, "I have a daughter;— your majesty will be a father to her.”

6. Napoleon grasped his right hand, and, sitting down by the bedside and leaning his head on his left hand, remained with closed eyes, a quarter of an hour, in profound silence.

7. Duroc first spoke. Seeing how deeply Bonaparte was moved, he exclaimed, "Ah! sire, leave me; this spectacle pains you!" The stricken Emperor rose, and, leaning on the arms of his equerry and Marshal Soult, left the apartment, saying, in heart-breaking tones, as he went, "Farewell, then, my friend!"

8. The hot pursuit he had directed, a moment before, was forgotten,- victory, trophies, prisoners, and all, sunk into utter worthlessness; he forgot even his army, and the great interests at stake. He ordered his tent to be pitched near the cottage in which his friend was dying, and, entering it, passed the night all alone in inconsolable grief.

9. His most intimate friends dared not approach him; his favorite officers stood in groups at a distance, gazing anxiously and sadly on that silent tent. But immense consequences were hanging on the movements of the next morning, a powerful enemy was near, with their array yet unbroken, and his officers, at length, ventured to approach and ask for orders. But the brokenhearted chieftain only shook his head, exclaiming, "Everything to-morrow!" and still kept his mournful attitude.

10. Oh, how overwhelming was the grief that could so master that stern heart! The magnificent spectacle of the day that had passed, the glorious victory he had won, were remembered no more, he saw only his dying friend before him. No sobs escaped him, but silent and motionless he sat, his pallid face buried in his hands and his noble heart wrung with agony.

11. Darkness drew her curtain over the scene, and the stars came out, one after another, in the sky. At length the moon rose above the hills, bathing in her soft beams the tented host, while the flames from burning villages in the distance shed a lurid light through the gloom, and all was sad, mournful, yet sublime.

12. There was the dark cottage with the sentinels at the door, in which Duroc lay dying, and there, too, was the solitary tent of Napoleon, and within, the bowed form of the Emperor. Around it, at a distance, stood the squares of the Old Guard, and nearer, a silent group of chieftains, while over all lay the pale moonlight.

13. These brave soldiers, filled with grief to see their beloved chief borne down with such sorrow, stood for a long time silent and tearful. At length, to break the mournful silence, and to express the sympathy they might not speak, the bands struck up a requiem for the dying marshal. The melancholy strains arose, and fell in prolonged echoes over the field, and swept in soft cadences on the ear of the fainting warrior,—but still Napoleon moved not.

14. They then changed the measure to a triumphant strain, and the thrilling trumpets breathed forth their most joyful notes, till the heavens rang with the melody. Such bursts of music had welcomed Napoleon as he returned, flushed with victory, till his eye kindled in exultation; but now they fell on a dull and listless ear. It ceased, and again the mournful requiem filled all the air. But nothing could arouse him from his agonizing reflections, his friend lay dying, and the heart he loved more than his life was throbbing its last pulsations.

15. What a theme for a painter, and what a eulogy on Napoleon was that scene! That noble heart, which the enmity of the world could not shake, nor the terrors of a battle-field move from its calm repose, nor even the hatred and insults of his enemies humble, here sunk, in the moment of victory, before the tide of affection. What military chieftain ever mourned thus on the field of victory, and what soldiers ever loved a leader so?

16. The next morning, a little after sunrise, Duroc died. When the mournful news was brought to Napo

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