No. 1. IF WORDSWORTH HAD WRITTEN “THE EVERLASTING MERCY”

Ever since boyhood it has been my joy To rove the hills and vales, the woods and streams, To commune with the flowers, the beasts, the birds, And all the humble messengers of God. And so not seldom have my footsteps strayed To that bare farm where Thomas Haythornthwaite (Alas! ’tis now ten years the good old man Is dead!) wrung turnips from the barren soil, To keep himself and his good wife, Maria, Whom I remember well, although ’tis now Full twenty years since she deceased; and I Have often visited her quiet grave In summer and in winter, that I might Place some few flowers upon it, and returned In solemn meditation from the spot. In the employment of this honest man There was a hind, Saul Kane, I knew him well, And oft-times ’twas my fortune to lament The blackness of the youth’s depravity. For when I came to visit Haythornthwaite The good old man, leaning upon his spade, Would say to me, “Saul Kane is wicked, sir; A wicked lad. Before he cut his teeth He broke his poor old mother’s heart in two. For at the beer-house he is often seen With ill companions, and at dead of night We hear him loud blaspheming at the owls That fly about the house. I oft have blushed At deeds of his I could not speak about.” But yet so wondrous is the heart of man That even Saul Kane repented of his sins— A little maid, a little Quaker maid, Converted him one day. “Saul Kane,” she said, “Dear Saul, I pray you will get drunk no more.” Nor did he; but embraced a sober life, And married Mary Thorpe; and yesterday I met him on my walk, and with him went Up to the house where he and his do dwell. And there I long in serious converse stayed, Speaking of Nature and of politics, And then turned homeward meditating much About the single transferable vote.