In childhood, from this solitary Being, 121 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, Yet further. -Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, 125 130 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 135 145 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? When they can know and feel that they have been, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 150 -Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week, 155 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 160 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has borne him, he appears To breathe and live but for himself alone, 165 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of Heaven Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts. —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 170 175 Beat his May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 190 196 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; 5 His staff is a sceptre-his grey 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 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 Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 15 Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he. 20 Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,The fields better suited the ease of his soul: He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought; and the 25 poor, Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: 30 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are run out, he must beg, or must borrow. To the neighbours he went,-all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, 35 That they dreamt not of dearth;-He continued his rounds, Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds. He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for himself: Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, Turned his back on the country—and off like a bird. 40 You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame ; In him it was scarcely a business of art, 45 To London-a sad emigration I ween- and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. |