To acts of love; and habit does the work To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds Or from like wanderer, haply have received That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, Of their own kindred; - all behold in him And circumspection needful to preserve Yet further. Many, I believe, there are, Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here, In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? man is dear to man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been, Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, Make him a captive! - for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon earth, That not without some effort they behold 1 1798. II. THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; His staff is a sceptre, his gray hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, - 'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain. A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection, as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, - The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of Plenty preserved him from harm: |