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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 on the 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 by the grassy bank Of high-way 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.

VOL. II.

Il.

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;
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak
Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.

Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn-mid the joy
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a Boy;
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in 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 good 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 borrow.

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.

He paid what he could of his ill-gotten pelf,
And something, it might be, reserved for himself:
Then, (what is too true,) without hiuting a word,
Turned his back on the Country; and off like a Bird.

You lift up your eyes and 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 grey 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 needs 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 birth-days 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 surprize.

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 have 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 ;
With a look of such earnestness often will stand
You might think he'd twelve Reapers at work in the Strand.

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