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, and strong admonishme

My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills;

The hope that is unwilling to be fed;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;

And mighty Poets in their misery dead.

And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,

My question eagerly did I renew,

"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 Ponds 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,

The Old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seem'd 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.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Chearfully uttered, with demeanour kind,

But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
I could have laugh'd 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."

SONNET S.

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,

Mindless of its just honours; with this key

Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land

To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!

1827.