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, The old Man's shape, and speech-all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him
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, 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!"
"THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop :
Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground;
And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water-never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air.
And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.
Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'
At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows;
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind 's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!''
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