The poetical works of William Wordsworth :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Me,” said I, “most doth it surprise, to find
Such book in such a place!”—“A book it is,”
He answered, “to the Person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things:
'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been
To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!—
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,
As from these intimations I forebode,

Grieved shall I be—less for my sake than yours,
And least of all for him who is no more.”

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand;
And he continued, glancing on the leaves
An eye of scorn:—“The lover,” said he, “doomed
To love when hope hath failed him—whom no depth
Of privacy is deep enough to hide,
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,
And that is joy to him. When change of times
Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give
The faithful servant, who must hide his head
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood,
And he too hath his comforter. How poor,
Beyond all poverty how destitute,
Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven,
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him
No dearer relique, and no better stay,
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,
Impure conceits discharging from a heart
Hardened by impious pride!—I did not fear
To tax you with this journey;”—mildly said
My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped
Into the presence of the cheerful light—
“For I have knowledge that you do not shrink
From moving spectacles;—but let us on.”