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Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion that the cottage curs,
Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by:
Him even the slow-pac'd waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this man useless.-Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contem-

plate Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him

not A burthen of the earth. 'T'is nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brnte, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul to every mode of being Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps 11 From door to door, the Villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, Else unremember'd, 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,
Hainlets, 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 unpursu'd
Doth find itself-insensibly dispos’d
To virtue and true goodness. Some there are,
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Wilf live, and spread, and kindle; minds like

these,
In childhood; from this solitary being,
This helpless wanderer, have perchancereceiv'd
(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

man Who sits at his own door, and like the pear Which overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove

easy

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..

to begin

[graphic]

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 press'd herself By her'oiyni wants, she from her chest of meal Takes 'one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door Returning with exhilirated heart, Sits by her fire and builds her hope in heav'n.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head !
And while, in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has led him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblam'd, uninjur'd, 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 unletter'd 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 vallies, let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows,
And let the charter'd wind thatsweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face.
Reverence the hope whose vitat 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, wliether heard or not,-
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No inore behold 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-gather'd meal, and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die.

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