These wanderers are only a kind of representative overflow of a vast number whom our streets will never see.

The true wilderness wanderer, on the contrary, must be a man of action as well as of observation.

WANDERERS Wide are the meadows of night, And daisies are shining there, Tossing their lovely dews, Lustrous and fair; And through these sweet fields go, Wanderers amid the stars Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.

IV.: I have not forgot How thou didst love thy Charles, when he was yet A prating schoolboy: I have not forgot The busy joy on that important day, When, childlike, the poor wanderer was content To leave the bosom of parental love, His childhood's play-place, and his early home, For the rude fosterings of a stranger's hand, Hard, uncouth tasks, and schoolboys' scanty fare.

It was afterwards questioned, whether the supposed wanderer was only a catamount, a species of jaguar that emits doleful cries at night.

A war-worn wanderer was he, And absent many a year From the cottage-home he fain would see, From that resting-place where he would be, The spot to memory dear.

At this time the wanderer was an aged sage, seventy-two years old, fit, as custom goes, only for retirement and resignation to the fate of all flesh.

And the Wanderers were a weird, dark, tribe, that once in every seven years came down from the peaks of Mloon, having crossed by a pass that is known to them from some fantastic land that lies beyond.