_Hodge sits by the river_ _Awaiting, awaiting._ _Across he is going_ _If it will but stop flowing._ _But when? There’s no knowing._ _He dare not try swimming_ _In those waves full and brimming._ _On foot there’s no going,_ _And there’s no chance of rowing._ _So there he sits blinking_ _And calling it “thinking”!_ _God nor man can deliver_ _His soul from that river,_ _But Hodge won’t believe it_ _His soul can’t receive it!_ _Himself he’s deceiving,_ _But he styles it “believing”!_ _So this simpleton artless_ _To a THING that is heartless_ _Prays!—yes, takes to praying_ _In the hope of its staying_ _His soul to deliver:_ _“Good river, kind river,_ _Across I’d be going_ _If you would but stop flowing_ _Stay! pity my moping!_ _I’m hoping, I’m hoping_ _That you won’t flow for ever._ _Oh, say, will you never_ _Cease flowing, cease flowing?_ _Across I’d be going,_ _Rest! Flow not for ever!”_ _Says the river, deep river:_ _“I care not a stiver_ _For all your long waiting_ _And praying and prating_ _And whining and pining_ _And hoping and moping._ _Wait, if you like waiting,_ _Prate, if you like prating,_ _Pray, if you like praying,_ _But think not I’m staying,_ _Dream not I’m delaying_ _For a man and his praying,_ _For his smiling or frowning,_ _His swimming or drowning._ _Hope, if you’re for hoping,_ _Mope, if you’re for moping,_ _I’m not made for consoling_ _But for rolling and rolling_ _For ever._ _Time’s stream none can sever._ _Then cease your endeavour_ _Your soul to deliver_ _By coaxing the river._ _Cease shall I never_ _But flow on for ever_ _FOR EVER.”_ I was walking slowly onward, with the paper in my hand, my eyes bent on the ground. Suddenly a shadow, and a courteous salutation, made me aware that a stranger had met me and was passing by. Surprised and startled, I recovered myself after a moment and turned round to answer his greeting. He, too, turned, a man past threescore as I guessed, but vigorous, erect, with a dignity of carriage that appeared at the first glance. He bowed and passed on. The face reminded me of someone, but I could not think who it was. I turned again to Glaucus’s paper. “Don’t think too much of those scrawls” had been his last words. But how could I help thinking of them? How many myriads were in the same case! The myriads did not say what Glaucus said. But how many of them felt it! They had not suffered perhaps as he had, but they had suffered enough—crushed, maimed, forsaken!