He travels on, a solitary Man; 45 Of forms created the most vile and brute, lis age has no companion. On the 75 ground The dullest or most noxious, should exist lis eyes are turned, and, as he moves Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse along, of good, hey move along the ground; and, ever- A life and soul, to every mode of being more, nstead of common and habitual sight f fields with rural works, of hill and dale, ind the blue sky, one little span of earth s all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 51 low-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, le plies his weary journey; seeing still, and seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, ome scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, Which man is born to-sink, howe'er de- So low as to be scorned without a sin; 55 he nails of cart or chariot-wheel have This old Man creeps, the villagers in him left Behold a record which together binds mpressed on the white road,-in the Past deeds and offices of charity, same line, Else unremembered, and so keeps alive It distance still the same. Poor Tra- The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of veller ! years, fis staff trails with him; scarcely do his And that half-wisdom half-experience feet isturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 look and motion, that the cottage curs, re he has passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, and urchins newly breeched-all pass him by: 65 fim even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. gives, But deem not this Man useless.-States- By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, men! ye Doth find herself insensibly disposed Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds, In childhood, from this solitary Being, 110 (A thing more precious far than all that Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) No-man is dear to man; the poorest poor That first mild touch of sympathy and When they can know and feel that they thought, In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. man 115 The easy Of some small blessings; have been kind to such Who sits at his own door,-and, like the As needed kindness, for this single cause, pear That we have all of us one human heart. That overhangs his head from the green-Such pleasure is to one kind Being wall, known, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and My neighbour, when with punctual care. each week, young, ! 155 The prosperous and unthinking, they who Duly as Friday comes, though pressed live 120 Though he to no one give the fortitude Yet further. are herself To breathe and live but for himself alone, -Many, I believe, there The good which the benignant law f now 186 Was the boast of the country for excellent How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury dealt his mild ale! 15 Been doomed so long to settle upon earth That not without some effort they behold Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he The countenance of the horizontal sun, ising or setting, let the light at least ind a free entrance to their languid orbs, 191 and let him, where and when he will, sit 1 down Yet Adam was far as the farthest from His fields seemed to know what their And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, eneath the trees, or on a grassy bank f highway side, and with the little birds are his chance-gathered meal; and, All caught the infection-as generous as finally, in the eye of Nature he has lived, in the eye of Nature let him die! II. 195 HE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. mposed 1800.-Published July 21, 1800 (Morning Post); ed. 1815.] Is not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, he. 20 Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, The fields better suited the ease of his soul: e squeamish in taste, and the narrow Familiar with him, made an inn of his of mind, d his bright eyes look brighter, set off At length, what to most is a season of by the streak the unfaded rose that still blooms on sorrow, His means are run out,-he must beg, or his cheek. must borrow. To the neighbours he went,-all were free But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body must stir. with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished 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, 60 More of soul in his face than of words of his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come into ins eyes. What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? For this he did all in the ease of his Yet he watches the clouds that pass over heart. To London- -a sad emigration I weenWith his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; 46 And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. the streets; With a look of such earnestness often w stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours All trades, as need was, did old Adam Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, assume, Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, Old Adam will smile at the pains that For he's not like an Old Man that leisure- Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, About work that he knows, in a track Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and sme ly goes that he knows; at the hay; 1 1 He thinks of the fields he so often hath This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old. mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, 85 If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid, 16 To be a Prodigal's Favourite-then, worse truth, A Miser's Pensioner-behold our lot! Man, that from thy fair and shining youth May one blade of grass spring up over Age might but take the things Youth blast, needed not! Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care! nd buffeted at will by rain and storm. stopped, and said with inly-muttered For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream voice, and his sheaves, It doth not love the shower, nor seek Oh, what would they be to my tale of two the cold: Thieves? |