In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train’d;
Pride in the power that guards his country’s coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander’s tongue defied, —
In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride. 
   He had no party’s rage, no sect’ry’s whim;
Christian and countrymen was all with him: 
True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower
Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,
By the strong glare of their new light direct:-
“On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze.” 
   In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain;
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
   At length he found when seventy years were run,
His strength departed, and his labour done;
When he, save honest fame, retain’d no more,
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor: 
’Twas then a spark of—­say not discontent —
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:-
   “Kind are your laws (’tis not to be denied,)
That in yon House for ruin’d age provide,
And they are just;—­when young we give you all,
And for assistance in our weakness call.-
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread? 
But yet I linger, loth with him to feed,
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;
He who, by contract, all your paupers took,
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: 
On some old master I could well depend;
See him with joy and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him who doles the day’s supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die: 
Yet help me, Heav’n! and let me not complain
Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain.” 
   Such were his thoughts, and so resign’d he grew;
Daily he placed the Workhouse in his view! 
But came not there, for sudden was his fate,
He dropp’d, expiring, at his cottage gate. 
   I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there: 
I see no more these white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honour’d head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compell’d to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford soften’d to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there:  —
But he is blest, and I lament no more
A wise good man contented to be poor. 
   Then died a Rambler:  not the one who sails,
And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails;
Not one who posts from place to place—­of men
And manners treating with a flying pen;
Not he who climbs, for prospects, Snowdon’s height,
And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;