Yet further.—­Many, I believe, there are
  Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135
  Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
  No self-reproach; who of the moral law
  Established in the land where they abide
  Are strict observers; and not negligent
  In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140
  Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
  Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! 
 —­But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
  Go, and demand of him, if there be here
  In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145
  And these inevitable charities,
  Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 
  No—­man is dear to man; the poorest poor
  Long for some moments in a weary life
  When they can know and feel that they have been, 150
  Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
  Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
  As needed kindness, for this single cause,
  That we have all of us one human heart. 
 —­Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155
  My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
  Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
  By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal
  Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
  Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160
  Returning with exhilarated heart,
  Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! 
  And while in that vast solitude to which
  The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165
  To breathe and live but for himself alone,
  Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
  The good which the benignant law of Heaven
  Has hung around him:  and, while life is his,
  Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170
  To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D]
 —­Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! 
  And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
  The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
  Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175
  And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
  Beat his grey locks against his withered face. 
  Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
  Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
  May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180
  Make him a captive!—­for that pent-up din,
  Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
  Be his the natural silence of old age! 
  Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
  And have around him, whether heard or not, 185
  The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
  Few are his pleasures:  if his eyes have now
  Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
  That not without some effort they behold