d winds when they call;
And moveth altogether, if it move at all.
At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conn'd,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now such fre[e]dom as I could I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

----------

"What kind of work is that which you pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
He answer'd me _with pleasure and surprise_;
And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.
He told me _that he to this pond had come
To gather leeches_, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roam'd, from moor to moor,
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance:
And in this way he gain'd an honest maintenance.' I. p. 92-95.

Notwithstanding the distinctness of this answer, the poet, it seems, was
so wrapped up in his own moody fancies, that he could not attend to it.

'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." I. p. 96, 97.

This very interesting account, which he is lucky enough at last to
comprehend, fills the poet with comfort and admiration; and, quite glad
to find the old man so cheerful, he resolves to take a lesson of
contentedness from him; and the poem ends with this pious ejaculation--

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor." I. p. 97.

We defy the bitterest enemy of Mr Wordsworth to produce anything at all
parallel to this from any collection of English poetry, or even from the
specimens of his friend Mr Southey. The volume ends with some sonnets,
in a very different measure, of which we shall say something by and by.

The first poems in the second volume were written during a tour in
Scotland. The first is a very dull one about Rob Roy; but the title th