27. PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

prepare,

THE no feed me with a shepherd's care;
Lord my pasture shall

His

presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads,
My weary, wandering steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscapes flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O God, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

ADDISON.

A

28. THE TRAVELLER'S DOG.

BARKING sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scatter'd rocks:

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain-breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry.

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in hollow, or on height;
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear;

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow;

A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;

From trace of human foot or hand.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh,
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fall'n, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall'd the name,

And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember'd, too, the very day

On which the traveller pass'd this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been, through three months' space,
A dweller in that savage place!

Yes, proof was plain, that since the day

When this ill-fated traveller died,

The dog had watch'd about the spot,

Or by his master's side:

How nourish'd here through such long time,
He knows Who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate!

WORDSWORTH.

ONCE

29. THE POND.

NCE on a time, a certain man was found
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it was, a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water seiz'd the fellow's head:
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventur'd on a hearty draught;
Consuming all his time and strength away,
To make his pond rise higher every day.
In a wet season he would skip about,
Placing his buckets under ev'ry spout;
From falling show'rs collecting fresh supply,
And grudging ev'ry cloud that passed by;
Cursing the dryness of the times each hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty spot,
Where any little moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a hog:

And cried, whene'er folks blam'd him, "What d'ye mean?

It costs a world of water to be clean!"

If some poor neighbour craved to slake his thirst,
"What rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hang'd first
A burning shame, these vermin of the poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my door!

As if I had not frogs and toads enow,
That sink my pond whatever I can do.”

The sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of matters that were wet:
Betimes he rose to sweep the morning dew,
And rested late to catch the evening too;
With soughs and troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising pond from every neighbouring ditch;
With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and
sluices,

From growing plants he suck'd the very juices;
He left, in short, for this beloved plunder,

No stone unturn'd that could have water under.
Sometimes, when forced to quit his awkward toil,
And
sore against his will - to rest awhile,
Then straight he took his book, and down he sat
To calculate th' expenses he was at;

How much he suffer'd, at a mod'rate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew less;
For as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd—not a single figure:
He knew a wise old saying, which he maintain'd,
That 'twas bad luck to count what one had gained.
"First for myself— my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year:

But things are come to such a pass, indeed

We spend ten times the water that we need;

People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing;

So many proud fantastic modes, in short,
Are introduced, that my poor pond pays for't.