No More Learning

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described
belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor,
and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to
a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed
days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received
charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions. -W. W.
1800.

[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child.
Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The
Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon
mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on
alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it
can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails
in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of
its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their
neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a
condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of
their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the
benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and
all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep
all they possess from their distressed brethren. --I. F. ]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation.
In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him 25
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground,
But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30
Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3]
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4]
The old man does not change his course, the boy 40
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground 45
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
_They_ move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5]
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7]
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8]
Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless. --Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not
A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C]
Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door
This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.