How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
Of the silver-rimm'd horn whence he dealt his mild ale!
Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin;
His fields seem'd 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 stray'd 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 replenish'd with honey,
That they dreamt not of dearth: he continued his rounds, Knock'd here and knock'd 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,
Turn'd 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 Londona 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 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
About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;
But often his mind is compell'd 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 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;
With a look of such earnestness often will stand,
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.'
Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made
Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade.
'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw,
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw;
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,
And his hearing is touch'd with the sounds of a dream.
Up the Haymarket-hill he oft whistles his way,
Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay;
He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.
But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,
If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there.
The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.
Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid,
May one blade of grass spring up over thy head;
8 The Strand is one of the most thronged and crowded thoroughfares in London
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. [1803.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
AT the corner of Wood-Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on Earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in Heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! [1797.
OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.
O, NOW that the genius of Bewick were mine,
And the skill which he learn'd on the banks of the Tyne!
Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose,
For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.
What feats would I work with my magical hand!
Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land:
And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls,
Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.
The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair;
Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care!
4 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale is a charming counterpart to Poor Susan, with the addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so fine in "the Old Thief and the Boy by his side," which always brings water into my eyes.CHARLES LAMB.
5 This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a boy at Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than myself when he was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No book could have so early taught me to think of the changes to which human life is subject; and while looking at him I could not but say to myself, "We may, one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, live to become still more the object of pity than this old man, this half-doating pil ferer."-The Author's Notes.
For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves,
O, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?
The One, yet unbreech'd, is not three birthdays old,
His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told;
There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather
Between them, and both go a-pilfering together.
With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor?
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door?
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide;
And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.
Old Daniel begins; he stops short, and his eye,
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly•
"Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,
But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
He once had a heart which was moved by the wires
Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'twas no more
Than treading a path trod by thousands before.
"Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one
Who went something further than others have gone;
And now with old Daniel you see how it fares;
You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the Sun
Has peer'd o'er the beeches, their work is begun :
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,
This child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread,
And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led;
And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.
Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam;
For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home,
Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done ;
And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one.
Old Man, whom so oft I with pity have cyed,
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side:
Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.
AN Orpheus! an Orpheus! Yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old;
Near the stately Panthéon you'll meet with the same,
In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd its name.
His station is there; and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim,-
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?
What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;
The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthen'd soul is no longer opprest.
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-brow'd Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste,
What matter! he's caught, and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret;
And the half-breathless Lamplighter, he's in the net!
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
He stands, back'd by the wall; -he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there! The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
O, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while
If they speak, 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? O, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!
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