And he had many hardships to endure :
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to

moor;

Housing, with God's good help, by choice of chance;

And in this way he gained an honest mainte

nance.

XVI.

The old man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I
divide;

And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonish

ment.

XVII.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,

"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

XVIII.

He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. "Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

XIX.

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled

me:

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually,

Wandering about alone and silently.

While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

XX.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit man so firm a mind.

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ; I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

A FAREWELL.

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain

ground,

Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell!-we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful

care,

Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And safely she will ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that decorate our door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:

Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon;
Here they are in our sight-we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell

With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed—
And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear spot! which we have watched with tender heed,

Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,

Making all kindness registered and known; Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,

Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And oh, most constant, yet most fickle Place, That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show

To them who look not daily on thy face;

Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, And say'st when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"

Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring the best beloved and best. Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's
breast

Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sung one song that will not die.

Oh, happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of
flowers,

And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

1802.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S
"CASTLE OF INDOLENCE."

WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt One
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took: