Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,

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,
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
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
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway-side, and with the little birds,
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!

1796.

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
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 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.

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 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

At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,

His means are run out,

he must beg, or must

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.

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, For this he did all in the ease of his heart.

To London

a sad emigration I ween With his gray hairs he went, from the brook and

the green:

And there, with small wealth but his legs and his

hands,

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 birthdays younger, is green and is

stout;

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
stir.

In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, Like one whose own country 's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.

This gives him the fancy of one that is young, More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets;