A Character

I marvel how Nature could ever find spaceFor so many strange contrasts in one human face:There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloomAnd bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;Such strength as, if ever affliction and painCould pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,And attention full ten times as much as there needs;Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stareOf shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;And I for five centuries right gladly would beSuch an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seenBuildings, albeit rude, that have maintainedProportions more harmonious, and approachedTo closer fellowship with ideal grace.But take it in good part:--alas! the poorVitruvius of our village had no helpFrom the great City; never, upon leavesOf red Morocco folio saw displayed,In long succession, pre-existing ghostsOf Beauties yet unborn--the rustic LodgeAntique, and Cottage with verandah graced,Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage.Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these wallsThe heifer comes in the snow-storm, and hereThe new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.And hither does one Poet sometimes rowHis pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piledWith plenteous store of heath and withered fern,(A lading which he with his sickle cuts,Among the mountains) and beneath this roofHe makes his summer couch, and here at noonSpreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep,Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,Lie round him, even as if they were a partOf his own Household: nor, while from his bedHe looks, through the open door-place, toward the lakeAnd to the stirring breezes, does he wantCreations lovely as the work of sleep--Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!