Page:Peter Bell (Wordsworth).djvu/39

Part I. His face was keen as is the wind

That cuts along the hawthorn fence;

Of courage you saw little there,

But, in its stead, a medley air

Of cunning and of impudence.

He had a dark and sidelong walk,

And long and slouching was his gait;

Beneath his looks so bare and bold,

You might perceive, his spirit cold

Was playing with some inward bait.

His forehead wrinkled was and furr'd;

A work one half of which was done

By thinking of his whens and hows;

And half by knitting of his brows

Beneath the glaring sun.