Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/308

300 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!

His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet

Disturb the summer dust; he is so still

In look and motion, that the cottage curs,

Ere he have passed the door, will turn away,

Weary of barking at him. Boys and Girls,

The vacant and the busy, Maids and Youths,

And Urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:

Him even the slow-paced Waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye

Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye

Who have a broom still ready in your hands

To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,

Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate

Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not

A burthen of the earth. 'Tis Nature's law

That none, the meanest of created things,

Of forms created the most vile and brute,

The dullest or most noxious, should exist

Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,

A life and soul to every mode of being

Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps

From door to door, the Villagers in him