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I led a wandering life among the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
I lived upon what casual bounty yields,
Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
The ground I for my bed have often used:
But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth
Is, that I have my inner self abused,

Forgone the home delight of constant truth,

And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd,
In tears, the sun towards that country tend
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
And now across this moor my steps I bend-
Oh! tell me whither for no earthly friend
Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away,

As if because her tale was at an end

She wept;-because she had no more to say

Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

POEMS

FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS.

I.

THE BROTHERS*.

THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,

And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Upon the forehead of a jutting crag

Sit perched, with book and pencil on their knee,
And look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.

* This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologize for the abruptness with which the poem begins.

But, for that moping Son of Idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Tomb-stone nor name-only the turf we tread,
And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,

Who turned her large round wheel in the open air
With back and forward steps. Towards the field
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder; and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path
Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,

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