Conscience is instinct bred in the house, Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin By an unnatural breeding in and in. I say, Turn it out doors, Into the moors. I love a life whose plot is simple, And does not thicken with every pimple, A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, That makes the universe no worse than’t finds it. I love an earnest soul, Whose mighty joy and sorrow Are not drowned in a bowl, And brought to life to-morrow; That lives one tragedy, And not seventy; A conscience worth keeping, Laughing not weeping; A conscience wise and steady, And for ever ready; Not changing with events, Dealing in compliments; A conscience exercised about Large things, where one _may_ doubt. I love a soul not all of wood, Predestinated to be good, But true to the backbone Unto itself alone, And false to none; Born to its own affairs, Its own joys and own cares; By whom the work which God begun Is finished, and not undone; Taken up where he left off, Whether to worship or to scoff; If not good, why then evil, If not good god, good devil. Goodness!--you hypocrite, come out of that, Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. I have no patience towards Such conscientious cowards. Give me simple laboring folk, Who love their work, Whose virtue is a song To cheer God along. PILGRIMS ‘Have you not seen In ancient times Pilgrims pass by Toward other climes? With shining faces, Youthful and strong, Mounting this hill With speech and with song?’ ‘Ah, my good sir, I know not those ways: Little my knowledge, Tho’ many my days. When I have slumbered, I have heard sounds As of travellers passing These my grounds: ‘’Twas a sweet music Wafted them by, I could not tell If afar off or nigh. Unless I dreamed it, This was of yore: I never told it To mortal before; ‘Never remembered But in my dreams, What to me waking A miracle seems.’ THE DEPARTURE In this roadstead I have ridden, In this covert I have hidden; Friendly thoughts were cliffs to me, And I hid beneath their lea. This true people took the stranger, And warm-hearted housed the ranger; They received their roving guest, And have fed him with the best; Whatsoe’er the land afforded To the stranger’s wish accorded; Shook the olive, stripped the vine, And expressed the strengthening wine. And by night they did spread o’er him What by day they spread before him;-- That good-will which was repast Was his covering at last. The stranger moored him to their pier Without anxiety or fear; By day he walked the sloping land, By night the gentle heavens he scanned.