Beneath that pine which rears its dusky head
    Aloft, and covered by a plain blue stone
    Briefly inscribed, a gentle Dalesman lies;
    From whom in early childhood was withdrawn
    The precious gift of hearing.  He grew up
    From year to year in loneliness of soul;
    And this deep mountain valley was to him
    Soundless with all its streams.  The bird of dawn
    Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep
    With startling summons; not for his delight
    The vernal cuckoo shouted, not for him
    Murmured the labouring bee.  When stormy winds
    Were working the broad bosom of the Lake
    Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,
    Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud
    Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,
    The agitated scene before his eye
    Was silent as a picture; evermore
    Were all things silent wheresoe’er he moved. 
    Yet by the solace of his own calm thoughts
    Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
    Of rural labours:  the steep mountain side
    Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;
    The plough he guided and the scythe he swayed,
    And the ripe corn before his sickle fell
    Among the jocund reapers.  For himself,
    All watchful and industrious as he was,
    He wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned;
    No wish for wealth had place within his mind,
    No husband’s love nor father’s hope or care;
    Though born a younger brother, need was none
    That from the floor of his paternal home
    He should depart to plant himself anew;
    And when mature in manhood he beheld
    His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued
    Of rights to him, but he remained well pleased
    By the pure bond of independent love,
    An inmate of a second family,
    The fellow-labourer and friend of him
    To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
    Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight
    That pressed upon his brother’s house; for books
    Were ready comrades whom he could not tire;
    Of whose society the blameless man
    Was never satiate; their familiar voice
    Even to old age with unabated charm
    Beguiled his leisure hours, refreshed his thoughts,
    Beyond its natural elevation raised
    His introverted spirit, and bestowed
    Upon his life an outward dignity
    Which all acknowledged.  The dark winter night,
    The stormy day had each its own resource;
    Song of the Muses, sage historic tale,
    Science severe, or word of Holy Writ
    Announcing immortality and joy
    To the assembled spirits of the just
    From imperfection and decay secure: 
    Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,
    To no perverse suspicion he gave way;
    No languour, peevishness, nor vain complaint. 
    And they who were about him