Such as to doubt have rustic readers led;
Have made them stop to reason why? and how? 
And, where they once agreed, to cavil now. 
Oh! rather give me commentators plain,
Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;
Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back,
And guard the point no enemies attack. 
   Bunyan’s famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon;
A genius rare but rude was honest John;
Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled,
Drank from her well the waters undefiled;
Not one who slowly gained the hill sublime,
Then often sipp’d and little at a time;
But one who dabbled in the sacred springs,
And drank them muddy, mix’d with baser things. 
   Here to interpret dreams we read the rules,
Science our own! and never taught in schools;
In moles and specks we Fortune’s gifts discern,
And Fate’s fix’d will from Nature’s wanderings learn. 
   Of Hermit Quarll we read, in island rare,
Far from mankind and seeming far from care;
Safe from all want, and sound in every limb;
Yes! there was he, and there was care with him. 
   Unbound and heap’d, these valued tomes beside,
Lay humbler works, the pedlar’s pack supplied;
Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name: 
The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame;
And fame, denied to many a labour’d song,
Crowns Thumb the Great, and Hickathrift the strong. 
   There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,
Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell’d: 
His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed;
His coat of darkness on his loins he braced;
His sword of sharpness in his hand he took,
And off the heads of doughty giants stroke: 
Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;
No sound of feet alarm’d the drowsy ear;
No English blood their Pagan sense could smell,
But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell. 
   These are the Peasant’s joy, when, placed at ease,
Half his delighted offspring mount his knees. 
   To every cot the lord’s indulgent mind
Has a small space for garden-ground assign’d;
Here—­till return of morn dismiss’d the farm —
The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,
Warm’d as he works, and casts his look around
On every foot of that improving ground : 
It is his own he sees; his master’s eye
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known; —
Hope, profit, pleasure,—­they are all his own. 
Here grow the humble cives, and, hard by them,
The leek with crown globose and reedy stem;
High climb his pulse in many an even row,
Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below;
And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,
Give a warm relish to the night’s repast. 
   Apples and cherries grafted by his hand,
And cluster’d nuts for neighbouring market stand.