Employment hazardous and wearisome!
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 or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

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 admonishment.

XVII.

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

Cold, pain, and labor, 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

XVIII.

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."

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 demeanor 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!"

XXIII.

THE THORN.

I.

"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 gray.

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.

II.

"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 endeavor
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

III.

66 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,

Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air.

IV.

"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 colors there you see,
All colors 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.

V.

"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'crgrown 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 anywhere,

An infant's grave was half so fair.

VI.

"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,

'O misery! O misery!

O woe is me! O misery!'

VII.

"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,