THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road All white with flour, the dole of village dames, Upon the second step of that small pile, He travels on, a solitary man, His age has no companion. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet But deem not this man useless. From door to door, the villagers in him Past deeds and offices of charity. Among the farms and solitary huts, 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, THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, To virtue and true goodness. My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven. And while in that vast solitude to which THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. Has hung around him; and, while life is his, And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And let him, where and when he will, sit down |