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Far from their noisy haunts retire
There seek the genius of your Sire,
O where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
His judgment with benignant ray
Let faith be given;
Nor deem that "light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven."
Let no mean hope you souls enslave;
But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!
OH what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech! Yet though dread Powers, that work in mystery,
Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch
O'er the chilled heart - reflect; far, far within
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin.
She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch,
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch
To Her from heights that Reason may not win.
in Her our sins and sorrows past.
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.
'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, —'mid the
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a
That his life hath received, to the last will remain.
A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild
Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
His fields seemed to know what their Master was
And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,
as generous as he.
Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,
For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,
Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:
To the neighbors he went, all were free with their
For his hive had so long been replenished with honey That they dreamt not of dearth; - he continued his rounds,
- and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.
He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,
You lift up your eyes! - but I guess that you frame
To London a sad emigration I ween
With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the
And there, with small wealth, but his legs and his
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.
All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,
He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.
For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes About work that he knows, in a track that he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur,
And you guess that the more then his body must
In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,
This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
.Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,
What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.
Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made