Lyrical Ballads, with other poems, by William Wordsworth

The two Thieves, or the last stage of Avarice

Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine

And the skill which He learn’d on the Banks of the Tyne;

When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose

For I’d take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

What feats would I work with my magical hand!

Book-learning and books should be banish’d the land

And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls

Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair

Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.

For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves,

Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

Little Dan is unbreech’d, he is three birth-days old,

His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,

There’s ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather

Between them, and both go a stealing together.

With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?

It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman’s door?

Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,

And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.

Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye

Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.

’Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,

But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

Dan once had a heart which was mov’d by the wires

Of manifold pleasures and many desires:

And what if he cherish’d his purse? ’Twas no more

Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

’Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one

Who went something farther than others have gone;

And now with old Daniel you see how it fares

You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun

Has peer’d o’er the beeches their work is begun:

And yet into whatever sin they may fall,

This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,

And each in his turn is both leader and led;

And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,

Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

Neither check’d by the rich nor the needy they roam,

For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;

Who will gladly repair all the damage that’s done,

And three, were it ask’d, would be render’d for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey’d,

I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:

Long yet may’st thou live, for a teacher we see

That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/wordsworth/william/lyrical/poem42.html

Last updated Tuesday, March 4, 2014 at 12:30