"Though born a younger brother, need was none That from the floor of his paternal home He should depart, to plant himself anew. 430 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased, By the pure bond of independent love, An inmate of a second family; 435 The fellow-labourer and friend of him To whom the small inheritance had fallen. --Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his brother's house; for books Were ready comrades whom he could not tire; 440 Of whose society the blameless Man Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, Even to old age, with unabated charm Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts; Beyond its natural elevation raised 445 His introverted spirit; and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, The stormy day, each had[675] its own resource; Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 450 Science severe, or word of holy Writ Announcing immortality and joy To the assembled spirits of just men Made perfect, and from injury secure.[676] --Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 455 To no perverse suspicion he gave way, No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint: And they, who were about him, did not fail In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized His gentle manners: and his peaceful smiles, 460 The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, Were met with answering sympathy and love.
"At length, when sixty years and five were told, A slow disease insensibly consumed The powers of nature: and a few short steps 465 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) To the profounder stillness of the grave. --Nor was his funeral denied the grace Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 470 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. And now that monumental stone preserves His name, and unambitiously relates How long, and by what kindly outward aids, And in what pure contentedness of mind, 475 The sad privation was by him endured. --And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, Hath now its own peculiar sanctity; And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 480 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.