Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, His body was bent double, feet and head A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book : And now a stranger's privilege I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.” A gentle answer did the Old-man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Such as grave livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The Old-man still stood talking by my side; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" 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." While he was talking thus, the lonely place, While I these thoughts within myself pursued, And soon with this he other matter blended, I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!" THE BROTHERS.1 'THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our churchyard Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Who turned her large round wheel in the open air In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 1 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 apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins. F Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, And perilous waters,-with the mariners Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Of caves and trees :—and, when the regular wind Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam In union with the employment of his heart, |