THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH - VOL. 2 (Completed)

THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE

Composed 1800.--Published 1815 [A]

[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'.--I.F.]

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;

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;

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

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.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, [8]--

The fields better suited the ease of his soul: