Next to these Ladies, but in nought allied, A noble Peasant, _Isaac Ashford_, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His Truth unquestion’d and his Soul serene: Of no man’s presence _Isaac_ felt afraid; At no Man’s question, _Isaac_ look’d dismay’d: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no Disgrace; Truth, simple Truth, was written in his Face; Yet while the serious Thought his Soul approv’d, Cheerful he seem’d and Gentleness he lov’d: To Bliss domestic he his Heart resign’d, And with the firmest, had the fondest Mind: Were others joyful, he look’d smiling on, And gave Allowance where he needed none; Good he refus’d with future Ill to buy, Nor knew a Joy that caus’d Reflection’s Sigh; A Friend to Virtue, his unclouded Breast No Envy stung, no Jealousy distress’d; (Bane of the Poor! it wounds their weaker Mind, To miss one Favour, which their Neighbours find:) Yet far was he from Stoic-pride remov’d; He felt humanely, and he warmly lov’d: I mark’d his Action, when his Infant died, And his old Neighbour for Offence was tried; The still Tears, stealing down that furrow’d Cheek, Spoke Pity, plainer than the Tongue can speak. If Pride were his, ’twas not their Vulgar Pride, Who, in their base Contempt, the Great deride; Nor Pride in Learning, though my Clerk agreed, If Fate should call him, _Ashford_ might succeed; Nor Pride in Rustic-skill, although we knew, None his Superior, and his Equals, few: But if that Spirit in his Soul had place, It was the jealous Pride that shuns Disgrace; A Pride in honest Fame, by Virtue gain’d, 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 defy’d, In fact, a noble Passion, misnam’d _Pride_. He had no party’s Rage, no Sect’ry’s Whim; Christian and Countryman 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, save his honest Fame, he kept 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,