AS slow I wander'd o'er yon barren heath,
Musing on woes to come--on evils past,
Cursing that fate me in such mould had cast,
I at my side did hear a gentle breath!
When straitway looking down, behold I saw
A piteous imp--deform'd his limbs appear'd,
And wither'd quite--while on a stick he rear'd
His wretched weight--on nature's face a flaw!
Pale was his ashy check--no hope there beam'd
From his sunk eye; his matted locks, poor child!
O'er his mishapen back hung loose and wild,
And conscious of his misery he seem'd.
Loud blew the wind, and shook the slender wight;
With long, thin hand he grasp'd his stick, and rais'd
On me his tearful eyes; sadly I gaz'd,
When swift he vanish'd from my troubl'd sight!