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,
“And then for Comforts in our Weakness call.—
“Why then this proud Reluctance to be fed,
“To join your Poor and eat the Parish-Bread?
“But yet I linger, loath with him to feed,
“Who gains his Plenty by the Sons of Need;
“He who, by Contract, all your Paupers took,
“And guages Stomachs with an anxious Look:
“On some old Master I could well depend;
“See him with joy and thank him as a Friend;
“But ill on him, who doles the Day’s Supply,
“And counts our Chances, who at Night may die:
“Yet help me Heav’n! and let me not complain
“Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.”
Such were his Thoughts, and so resign’d he grew;
Daily he plac’d the Workhouse l think,——’ he said, and shut the Door.
Then the gay Niece, the seeming Pauper press’d;—
“Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this Form distrest;
“Akin to thine is this declining Frame,
“And this poor Beggar claims an Uncle’s Name.”
‘Avaunt! begone! (the courteous Maiden said,)
‘Thou vile Impostor! Uncle Roger’s dead;
‘I hate thee. Beast! thy Look, my spirit shocks;
‘Oh! that I saw thee starving in the Stocks!’
“My gentle Niece!” he said;—and sought the Wood.—
“I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me Food!”
‘Give! am I rich? This Hatchet take and try
‘Thy proper Strength, nor give those Limbs the lie;
‘Work, feed thyself, to thine own Powers appeal,
‘Nor whine out Woes, thine own Right-hand can heal:
‘And while that Hand is thine and thine a Leg,
‘Scorn, of the Proud or of the Base to beg.’
“Come, surly John, thy wealthy Kinsman view;”
(Old Roger said:)—“thy Words are brave and true;
“Come, live with me; we’ll vex those Scoundrel-Boys:
“And that prim Shrew shall, envying, hear our Joys.”—
“Tobacco’s glorious Fume, all Day we’ll share,
“With Beef and Brandy kill all kinds of Care,
“We’ll Beer and Biscuit on our Table heap,
“And rail at Rascals, till we fall asleep.”
Such was their Life: but when the Woodman died,
His grieving Kin for Roger’s Smiles applied;—
In vain; he shut, with stern Rebuke, the Door,
And dying, built a Refuge for the Poor;
With this Restriction, That no Cuff should share
One Meal or shelter for one Moment there.

My Record ends:—But hark! ev’n now I hear
The Bell of Death and know not whose to fear:
Our Farmers all and all our Hinds were well;
In no Man’s Cottage, Danger seem’d to dwell:—
Yet Death of Man proclaim these heavy Chimes,
For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times.
“Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose Days are sped?”——
“What! he, himself!—and is old Dibble dead?”
His Eightieth Year he reach’d, still undecay’d,
And Rectors five to one close Vault convey’d:—
But he is gone; his Care and Skill I lose,
And gain a mournful Subject for my Muse:
His Masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore,
And kindly add,—‘Heaven grant, I lose no more!’
Yet while he spake, a sly and pleasant Glance
Appear’d at variance with his Complaisance:
For, as he told their Fate and varying Worth,
He archly look’d,—‘I yet may bear thee forth.’
“When first”—(he so began)—“my Trade I ply’d,
“Good Master Addle was the Parish-Guide;
“His Clerk and Sexton, I beheld with fear
“His Stride majestic and his Frown severe;
“A noble Pillar of the Church he stood,
“Adorn’d with College-gown and Parish-hood;
“Then, as he pac’d the hallow’d Aisles about,
“He fill’d the sevenfold Surplice fairly out:
“But in his Pulpit wearied down with Prayer,
“He sat and seem’d as in his Study’s Chair;
“For while the Anthem swell’d and when it ceas’d,
“Th’ expecting People view’d their slumbering Priest;—
“Who dozing, died.—— Our Parson Peele was next;
“‘I will not spare you,’ was his favourite Text:
“Nor did he spare, but rais’d them many a Pound;
“Ev’n me he mulct for my poor Rood of Ground;
“Yet car’d he nought, but with a gibing Speech,
“‘What should I do,’ quoth he, ‘but what I preach?’
“His piercing Jokes (and he’d a plenteous store)
“Were daily offer’d both to Rich and Poor;
“His Scorn, his Love, in playful Words he spoke:
“His Pity, Praise, and Promise, were a Joke:
“But though so young and blest with spirits high,
“He died as grave as any Judge could die:
“The strong Attack subdu’d his lively Powers,—
“His was the Grave and Doctor Grandspear ours.”
“Then were there golden Times the Village round;
“In his Abundance all appear’d t’ abound;
“Liberal and rich, a plenteous Board he spread,
“Ev’n cool Dissenters at his Table fed;
“Who wish’d,—and hop’d,—and thought a Man so kind,
“A Way to Heaven, though not their own, might find;
“To them, to all, he was polite and free,
“Kind to the Poor, and, ah! most kind to me:—
“‘Ralph,’ would he say, ‘Ralph Dibble, thou art old;
“‘That Doublet fit, ’twill keep thee from the Cold:
“‘How does my Sexton?—What! the Times are hard;
“‘Drive that stout Pig and pen him in thy Yard.’
“But most, his Reverence lov’d a mirthful Jest;—
“‘Thy Coat is thin; why, Man, thou’rt barely drest;
“‘It’s worn to th’ Thread! but I have nappy Beer;
“‘Clap that within and see how they will wear.’
“Gay Days were these; but they were quickly past:
“When first he came, we found he cou’dn’t last:
“An whoreson Cough (and at the Fall of Leaf)
“Upset him quite:—but what’s the Gain of Grief?
“Then came the Author-Rector; his Delight

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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