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! That not without some effort they behold 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 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 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, 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 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; |