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And from the private struggles of mankind
Hoping for less than I could wish to hope,
Far less than once I trusted and believed—
I love to hear of Those, who, not contending
Nor summoned to contend for Virtue's prize,
Miss not the humbler good at which they aim;
Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt
The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn
Into their contraries the petty plagues
And hindrances with which they stand beset.
—In early youth among my native hills
I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed
A few small Crofts of stone-encumbered ground;
Masses of every shape and size, that lay
Scattered about beneath the mouldering walls
Of a rough precipice; and some, apart,
In quarters unobnoxious to such chance,
As if the moon had showered them down in spite,
But he repined not. Though the plough was scared
By these obstructions, "round the shady stones
A fertilizing moisture," said the Swain,
"Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding dews
