And ye who might mistake for sober sense THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. Comp. 1803. Pub. 1815. [The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr Poole of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons-Mr Coleridge, Mr Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to the "Reverie of Poor Susan."] 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,-'mid the joy A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! 3 Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection-as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,- He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak There fashioned that countenance, 1815. 1815. For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm : To the neighbours he went,-all were free with their money; He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, You lift up your eyes!-but I guess that you frame For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London-a sad emigration I ween With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes And you guess that the more then his body must stir. In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, This gives him the fancy of one that is young, What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,- Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid, |