Included in the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed. 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; 5 His staff is a sceptre--his grey hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. [1] 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,--'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; 10 That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain [2] That his life hath received, to the last will remain. [3] A Farmer he was; and his house [4] far and near Was the boast of the country [5] for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 15 Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! [6] Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, [7] and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection--as generous as he. 20 Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, [8]-- The fields better suited the ease of his soul: He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, 25 Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. [9] Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: 30 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are [10] run out,--he must beg, or must borrow. To the neighbours he went,--all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;--He continued his rounds, [11] 35 Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds. He paid what he could with his [12] ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for himself: [13] Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, Turned his back on the country--and off like a bird. 40 You lift up your eyes!--but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; [14] In him it was scarcely [15] a business of art, For this he did all in the _ease_ [16] of his heart. To London--a sad emigration I ween--45 With his grey hairs he went from the brook [17] and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as [18] a crow on the sands.