"Cold blows the blast across the moor,
The fleet drives hissing in the wind;
Yon toilsome mountain lies before,
A dreary treeless waste behind.
"My eyes are weak and dim with age,
No road, no path, can I descry,
And these poor rags ill stand the rage
Of such a keen inclement sky.
"So faint I am—-these tottering seet
No more my palsied frame can bear;
My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
'• Open your hospitable door,
And shield me from the biting blast:
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The weary moor that I havepase'd!"
\Vith hasty step the farmer ran,
And close beside the sire they place
The poor hays-frozen beggar man
With shaking limbs and blue-pale face.