34
Yet these, long since, have all acquir'd a name;
The Wandering Jew, has found his way to fame;
And fame, denied to many a labour'd song,
Crowns Thumb the great, and Hickerthrift the strong.
There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,
Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd;
His shoes of swiftness, on his feet, he plac'd;
His coat of darkness, on his loins, he brac'd:
His sword of sharpness, in his hand, he took,
And off, the heads of doughty Giants stroke;
Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;
No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear;
No English blood, their Pagan sense could smell,
But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.
These hear the parent Swain, reclin'd at ease,
With half his listening offspring on his knees.
To every cot the Lord's indulgent mind,
Has a small space for Garden-ground assign'd;
Here—till return of morn, dismiss'd the farm—
The careful Peasant plies the sinewy arm:
Warm'd as he works and casts his look around
On every foot of that improving ground;
It is his own he sees; his Master's eye,
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;—
Hope, profit, pleasure,—they are all his own.
Here grow the humble Cives, and hard by them,
The tall Leek, tapering with his rushy stem;
High climb his Pulse in many an even row,
Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below,
The Wandering Jew, has found his way to fame;
And fame, denied to many a labour'd song,
Crowns Thumb the great, and Hickerthrift the strong.
There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,
Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd;
His shoes of swiftness, on his feet, he plac'd;
His coat of darkness, on his loins, he brac'd:
His sword of sharpness, in his hand, he took,
And off, the heads of doughty Giants stroke;
Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;
No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear;
No English blood, their Pagan sense could smell,
But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.
These hear the parent Swain, reclin'd at ease,
With half his listening offspring on his knees.
To every cot the Lord's indulgent mind,
Has a small space for Garden-ground assign'd;
Here—till return of morn, dismiss'd the farm—
The careful Peasant plies the sinewy arm:
Warm'd as he works and casts his look around
On every foot of that improving ground;
It is his own he sees; his Master's eye,
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;—
Hope, profit, pleasure,—they are all his own.
Here grow the humble Cives, and hard by them,
The tall Leek, tapering with his rushy stem;
High climb his Pulse in many an even row,
Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below,
