Him from my childhood have I known; and then
  He was so old, he seems not older now;
  He travels on, a solitary Man,
  So helpless in appearance, that for him 25
  The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
  And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground,
  But stops,—­that he may safely lodge the coin
  Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
  But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30
  Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3]
  Sidelong, and half-reverted.  She who tends
  The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
  She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
  The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35
  And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
  The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
  The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
  Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4]
  The old man does not change his course, the boy 40
  Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
  And passes gently by, without a curse
  Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man; His age has no companion.  On the ground 45 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 Is all his prospect.  Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5] He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,—­in the same line, At distance still the same.  Poor Traveller!  His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7] Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8] Ere he has [9] 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:  65 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, 70
  Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
  Your talents, power, or [10] 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, 75
  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