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These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee,
This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of 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.
But, for that moping son of Idleness
Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our church-yard
Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread,
Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air
With back and forward steps. Towards the field
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 snowy ridge
Of carded wool which the old Man had piled
Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
'Twas one well known to him in former days,
Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,