That least of all can ought-that ever owned The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime Which man is born to-sink, howe'er depressed, So low as to be scorned without a sin; Without offence to God cast out of view; Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
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,
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door, Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels
To acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, Doth find herself insensibly disposed To virtue and true goodness.
By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds In childhood, from this solitary Being, Or from like wanderer, haply have received (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Who sits at his own door,-and, like the pear That overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred ;-all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
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? No-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, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart. -Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself By her own wants, she from her store of meal 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 grey 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!
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 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
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 borrow.
To the neighbours he went, all were free with their money;
For his hive had so long been replenished with
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 weenWith his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green;
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of And there, with small wealth but his legs and his
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?
The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather
Between them, and both go a-pilfering together.
With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide! And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.
Old Daniel begins; he stops short-and his eye, Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly: "Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
He once had a heart which was moved by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherished his purse? "Twas no
Than treading a path trod by thousands before.
"Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone, And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun : And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, This child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led; And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. THE little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression: every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES.
TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.
WEEP not, beloved Friends! nor let the air For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life Have I been taken; this is genuine life And this alone-the life which now I live In peace eternal; where desire and joy Together move in fellowship without end.— Francesco Ceni after death enjoined
That thus his tomb should speak for him. And surely
Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours Long to continue in this world; a world That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope To good, whereof itself is destitute.
PERHAPS Some needful service of the State Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers, And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, Where gold determines between right and wrong. Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, And his pure native genius, lead him back To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, Whom he had early loved. And not in vain Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed. *-O human life, That never art secure from dolorous change! Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called To the perpetual silence of the grave. Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood A Champion stedfast and invincible, To quell the rage of literary War!
* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri
The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.
O THOU who movest onward with a mind Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! "Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock. Well did I watch, much laboured, nor had power To escape from many and strange indignities; Was smitten by the great ones of the world, But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks, Upon herself resting immoveably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite To serve the glorious Henry, King of France, And in his hands I saw a high reward Stretched out for my acceptance,--but Death came. Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false, How treacherous to her promise, is the world; And trust in God-to whose eternal doom Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth.
THERE never breathed a man who, when his life Was closing, might not of that life relate Toils long and hard.—The warrior will report Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, Envy and heart-inquietude, derived From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, Could represent the countenance horrible Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage Of Auster and Boötes. Fifty years Over the well-steered galleys did I rule :- From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. What noble pomp and frequent have not I
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