The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; By these fair plains the mountain circle screens,

That if gold ruste, what schal yren do?
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste; ....
He sette not his benefice to hyre,
And leet his scheep encombred in the myre,

To seeken him a chaunterie for soules,

soil;

And true to God, to freedom, to mankind,

If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, These stately forms, that, bending even now, Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plow,

Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, The same stern iron in the same right hand, Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run; The sword has rescued what the plowshare won!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE POOR PARSON.
(From "Canterbury Tales."')

(That Chaucer was an adherent of Wiclif is proved by many things, but by none more clearly than the following passage from his great work. The name "Poor Priest" or "Parson" was given in derision to Wiclifite preachers; and the virtues here enumerated were lacking sadly, the Reformer claimed, in the great mass of the clergy of the time.)

A

GOOD man was ther of religioun,

And was a poure Parsoun of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thought and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisschens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversite ful pacient ;

And such he was i-proved ofte sithes.
Ful loth were him to curse for his tythes,
But rather wolde he geven out of dowte,
Unto his poure parisschens aboute,
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce.
He cowde in litel thing han suffisaunce.
Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder,
In siknesse nor in meschief to visite
The ferreste in his parissche, moche and lite,
Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf,
This noble ensample to his scheep he gaf,
That first he wroughte, and after that he
taughte,

Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte,
And this figure he addede eek therto,

But dwelte at hoom, and keepte wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye.
He was a schepherde and no mercenarie;
And though he holy were, and vertuous,
He was to sinful man nought dispitous,
Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,
But in his teching discret and benigne.
To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse,
By good ensample, this was his busynesse:
But it were eny person obstinat,
What so he were, of high or lowe estat,
Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones.
A bettre preest I trowe ther nowher non is.
He waytede after no pompe and reverence,
Ne makede him a spiced conscience,
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taughte, and first he fowlede it himselve.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

pound What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, That in her garden sipped the silvery dew,

And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posy found;

And lavender, whose pikes of azure bloom
Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amid the labors of her loom,

Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer seat. Sweet melody; to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foemen did a song entreat, All for the nonce untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres; small heart had they to sing!

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And passed much time in truly virtuous deed;

And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore The times when truth by popish rage did bleed,

And tortuous death was true devotion's meed,

And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image placed her creed,

And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did burn.

Ah, dearest Lord, forfend those days should

e'er return!

In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,

In which when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed,

The matron sate; and some with rank she graced

(The source of children's and of courtier's pride),

Redressed affronts, for vile affronts there passed;

And warned them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise,

Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise,

And other some with baleful sprig she frays; E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,

While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;

Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books, of stature small, they take in hand,

Which with pellucid horn secured are,

To save from finger wet the letters fair; The work so gay that on their backs is seen, St. George's high achievements does de

clare,

On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight,
I ween.

Ah, luckless he! and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me while I write !
As erst the bard, by Mulla's silver stream,

Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. For brandishing the rod, she doth begin

To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight!

And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

Oh ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure
His little sister doth his peril see!
All playful as she sat, she grows demure,

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free, Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,

If gentle pardon could with dames agree, To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could

die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,

To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand,

To stay harsh justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear! Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow! She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace,

Or what device his loud laments explain?