Much more shall real wants and cares of age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage; —
Drooping and burthen’d with a weight of years,
What venerable ruin man appears! 
How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief —
He claims protection—­he compels relief; —
And shall we send him from our view, to brave
The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,
And let a stranger dig our ancient brother’s grave? 
No! we will shield him from the storm he fears,
And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.

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Farewell to these:  but all our poor to know,
Let’s seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row,
Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops
To see the sloping tenement on props,
With building-yards immix’d, and humble sheds and shops;
Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber’s-Arms invite
Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;
Where the low porches, stretching from the door,
Gave some distinction in the days of yore,
Yet now neglected, more offend the eye,
By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by: 
Places like these the noblest town endures,
The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers. 
   Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,
To give us shelter when compell’d to stop;
But plashy puddles stand along the way,
Fill’d by the rain of one tempestuous day;
And these so closely to the buildings run,
That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;
Though here and there convenient bricks are laid —
And door-side heaps afford tweir dubious aid,
   Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,
With the low paling, form’d of wreck, around: 
There dwells a Fisher:  if you view his boat,
With bed and barrel—­’tis his house afloat;
Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,
Tar, pitch, and oakum—­’tis his boat aground: 
That space inclosed, but little he regards,
Spread o’er with relics of masts, sails, and yards: 
Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest,
Of all his food, the cheapest and the best,
By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress’d. 
   Here our reformers come not; none object
To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;
None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,
That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast: 
None heed the stagnant pools on either side,
Where new-launch’d ships of infant-sailors ride: 
Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,
And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast. 
They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,
They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale: 
True to her port, the frigate scuds away,
And o’er that frowning ocean finds her bay: 
Her owner rigg’d her, and he knows her worth,
And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;
Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl’d,
When inch-high billows vex the watery world. 
   There, fed by food they love, to