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That least of all can ought--that ever owned

Yet further. Many, I believe, there are The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime Who live a life of virtuous decency, Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel So low as to be scorned without a sin;

No self-reproach ; who of the moral law Without offence to God cast out of view;

Established in the land where they abide Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower

Are strict observers; and not negligent Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 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

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! Behold a record which together binds

-But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Past deeds and offices of charity,

Go, and demand of him, if there be here Else unremembered, and so keeps alive

In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,

And these inevitable charities,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign

No-man is dear to man; the poorest poor
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.

Long for some moments in a weary life Among the farms and solitary huts,

When they can know and feel that they have been, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such The mild necessity of use compels

As needed kindness, for this single cause, To acts of love; and habit does the work

That we have all of us one human heart. Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy

--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself Doth find herself insensibly disposed

By her own wants, she from her store of meal To virtue and true goodness.

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Some there are,

Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
By their good works exalted, lofty minds

Returning with exhilarated heart, And meditative, authors of delight

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! In childhood, from this solitary Being,

And while in that vast solitude to which Or from like wanderer, haply have received The tide of things has borne him, he appears (A thing more precious far than all that books To breathe and live but for himself alone, Or the solicitudes of love can do !)

Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, The good which the benignant law of Heaven In which they found their kindred with a world Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear To tender offices and pensive thoughts. That overhangs his head from the green wall, - Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The prosperous and unthinking, they who live The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove

Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; Of their own kindred ;-all behold in him

And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath A silent monitor, which on their minds

Beat his grey locks against his withered face. Must needs impress a transitory thought

Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Of self-congratulation, to the heart

Gives the last human interest to his heart. Of each recalling his peculiar boons,

May never House, misnamed of INDUSTRY, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Make him a captive !—for that pent-up din, Though he to no one give the fortitude

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, And circumspection needful to preserve

Be his the natural silence of old age ! His present blessings, and to husband up

Let him be free of mountain solitudes; The respite of the season, he, at least,

And have around him, whether heard or not, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. The pleasant melody of woodland birds.

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.

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 !


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


To the neighbours he went,-all were free with

their money ; For his hive had so long been replenished with

honey, That they dreamt not of dearth ;—He continued

his rounds, Knocked here--and knocked there, pounds still

adding to pounds.



'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 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.

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

Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.

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.

the green ;

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—'mid the To London—a sad emigration I weenjoy

With his grey hairs he went from the brook and 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 a stain

hands, That his life hath received, to the last will remain. As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.

A Farmer he was; and his house far and near All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom;
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his
mild ale!


Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
His fields seemed to know what their Master was

And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,
All caught the infection-as generous as he.

He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is

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.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,— For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
The fields better suited the ease of his soul : About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;
He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, But often his mind is compelled to demur,
The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

And you guess that the more then his body must stir.

In the throng of the town like a stranger he, When hailstones have been falling, swarm on
Like one whose own country's far over the sea;

And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,

In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue;

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,

And recognised it, though an altered form, And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

Now standing forth an offering to the blast,

And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?
Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,

“ It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold :
With a look of such earnestness often will stand,
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in This neither is its courage nor its choice,
the Strand.

But its necessity in being old.

The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours

It cannot help itself in its decay;
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue.”

And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made
Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

To be a Prodigal's Favourite-then, worse truth,

A Miser's Pensioner-behold our lot!
'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw ;

Age might but take the things Youth needed not !
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,
And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a



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The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair;

Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,

he care! 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,

sheaves, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again !

Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves !

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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 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY.
Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

The little hedgerow birds,

That peck along the road, regard him not.
'Twas a path trod by thousands ; but Daniel is one He travels on, and in his face, his step,
Who went something farther than others have gone, His gait, is one expression: every limb,
And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; His look and bending figure, all bespeak
You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. A man who does not move with pain, but moves

With thought.—He is insensibly subdued
The pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the sun To settled quiet: he is one by whom
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun : All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,

Long patience hath such mild composure given, This child but half knows it, and that not at all. That patience now doth seem a thing of which

He hath no need. He is by nature led They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, To peace so perfect that the young behold And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led;

With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. And, wherever they carry their plots and their

wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.


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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

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.

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.



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

A roseate fragrance breathed. *_0 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!

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

* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri

Erano tutti rose. The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.

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