I saw an aged Beggar in my walk, And he was seated by the highway side On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile, and from a bag All white with flour the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sate, and eat his food in solitude; And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand, That still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal, Approached within the length of half his staff. 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 The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand 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 Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 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, 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 perchance The old Man does not change his course, the Boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, 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 His eyes are turn'd, 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 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey, seeing still, And never knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left Impress'd on the white road, in the same line, 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 pass'd the door, will turn away Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by: Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.