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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395881" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An English Peasant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,<br>A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.<br>Noble he was, contemning all things mean, <br>His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene:<br>Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,<br>At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd;<br>Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;<br>Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;<br>Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,<br>Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved:<br>To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,<br>And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind:<br>Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,<br>And have allowance where he needed none; <br>Good he refused with future ill to buy, <br>Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;<br>A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast<br>No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;<br>(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,<br>To miss one favour which their neighbours find):<br>Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;<br>He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:<br>I mark'd his action when his infant died,<br>And his old neighbour for offence was tried;<br>The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,<br>Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.<br>If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,<br>Who, in their base contempt, the great deride:<br>Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,<br>If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;<br>Nor pride in rustic skill, although we know<br>None his superior, and his equals few;<br>But if that spirit in his soul had place,<br>It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;<br>A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,<br>In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;<br>Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,<br>And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;<br>Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied,<br>In fact, a noble passion, a misnamed pride.<br>I feel his absense in the hours of prayer,<br>And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;<br>I see no more those white locks thinly spread<br>Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;<br>No more that awful glance on playful wight,<br>Compell'd to kneel, and tremble at the sight,<br>To fold his fingers all in dread the while, <br>Till Master Ashford soften'd to a smile;<br>No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,<br>Nor the pure faith, (to give it force,) are there;<br>But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,<br>A wise good man, contented to be poor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395881" data-title="An English Peasant de George Crabbe" data-description="To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean, 
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'..."></div>
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