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Kind brother Willie, strong yet gentle all:

'Twas he that placed him where his chair now stands, In that warm corner 'gainst the sunny wall.

God, in that brother, gave him more than lands.

VINCENT LEIGH HUNT.

Eve to Adam.

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ITH thee conversing I forget all time;
All seasons and their change, all please alike;
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful Evening mild, then silent Night
With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon,
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of Morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising Sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower
Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night
With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon,
Or glittering Star-light, without thee is sweet.

MILTON.

Portrait of Isaac Ashford, a Peasant.

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to these ladies, but in nought allied,

A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died,
Noble he was, contemning all things mean;
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene;
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed;
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face.
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved :

180

PORTRAIT OF ISAAC ASHFORD, A PEASANT.

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind :
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed 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 gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained;
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 defied,

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride.

PORTRAIT OF ISAAC ASHFORD, A PEASANT

181

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there :—
But he is blest, and I lament no more,

A wise, good man, contented to be poor.

CRABBE.

[Though they fail to exhibit the attributes of the highest genius, the poems of GEORGE CRABBE will always be welcome and valued, from the plenitude of human interest with which they abound. A truly benevolent man, and a warm sympathiser in the happiness and sorrows of the lowly, among whom, as a clergyman, it was his lot to labour, Crabbe was eminently fitted to chronicle "their homely joys and destiny obscure ;" and thus written by one whose heart may truly be said to have been in his work, the "Village Tales" and "Tales of the Hall" spread a contagious sympathy to their readers. Crabbe was fortunate enough to secure the friendship and patronage of Edmund Burke. He died at the age of seventy-eight, honoured and respected, in 1832.

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Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away-

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.

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