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Of transitory interest, and peeps round
For some rare Floweret of the hills, or Plant
Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins,
Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won:
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed Hound
By soul-engrossing instinct driven along
Through wood or open field, the harmless Man
Departs, intent upon his onward quest!
Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I,
Less to be envied (you may trace him oft
By scars which his activity has left
Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank heav'en!
This covert nook reports not of his hand)
He, who with pocket hammer smites the edge
Of every luckless rock or stone that stands
Before his sight, by weather-stains disguised,
Or crusted o'er with vegetation thin,
Nature's first growth, detaching by the stroke
A chip, or splinter,—to resolve his doubts;
And, with that ready answer satisfied,
Doth to the substance give some barbarous name,
Then hurries on; or from the fragments picks
His specimen, if haply interveined
