Included in the “Poems referring to the Period of Old Age.”—­Ed.

  ’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; 5
  His staff is a sceptre—­his grey hairs a crown;
  And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak
  Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. [1]

  ’Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—­’mid the joy
  Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; 10
  That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain [2]
  That his life hath received, to the last will remain. [3]

  A Farmer he was; and his house [4] far and near
  Was the boast of the country [5] for excellent cheer: 
  How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 15
  Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! [6]

  Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
  His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing;
  And turnips, and corn-land, [7] and meadow, and lea,
  All caught the infection—­as generous as he. 20

  Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, [8]—­
  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, 25 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. [9] Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:  The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm:  30 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are [10] 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, [11] 35
  Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

  He paid what he could with his [12] ill-gotten pelf,
  And something, it might be, reserved for himself:  [13]
  Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,
  Turned his back on the country—­and off like a bird. 40

  You lift up your eyes!—­but I guess that you frame
  A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; [14]
  In him it was scarcely [15] a business of art,
  For this he did all in the ease [16] of his heart.

  To London—­a sad emigration I ween—­45
  With his grey hairs he went from the brook [17] and the green;
  And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,
  As lonely he stood as [18] a crow on the sands.