SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN; *

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,——
"Tis said he once was tall.†
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry ;

* Written at Alfoxden, 1797. The old man had been huntsman to the Squires of that ilk.

In the Edition of 1815 the first three stanzas ran thus:

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,-
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery coat has he,
That's fair behind and fair before,

Yet meet him where you will, you see

At once that he is poor.

Full five-and-twenty years he lived

A running huntsman merry ;

And though he has but one eye left,

His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,

And no man was so full of glee,

To say the least, four counties round

Had heard of Simon Lee;

His master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;

To blither tasks did Simon rouse

The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled, and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices!

*

But, oh the heavy' change!-bereft

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty.†

* After this stanza the Edition of 1815 contains the following :

His hunting feats have him bereft

Of his right eye, as you may see:

And then what limbs those feats have left

To poor old Simon Lee !

He has no son, he has no child,

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,

Upon the village common.

This quatrain is not in the Edition of 1815.

His Master's dead,—and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick ;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.

One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.*

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two.t

* When he was young he little knew

Of husbandry or tillage,

And now is forced to work, though weak,
-The weakest in the village.-Edit. 1815.

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do,
For she, not over stout of limb,
Is stouter of the two.-Edit. 1815.

And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little—all

That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store

As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

And you must kindly take it :
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

* I hope you'll kindly take it.-Edit. 1815.

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.

-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning.*

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.†

WE walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
"The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

*S. T. Coleridge, quoting this passage, and also the beginning of the last stanza but three in this poem, remarks that even in the smaller poems of Wordsworth "there is scarcely one that is not rendered valuable by some just and original reflection."

Written at Goslar, 1799.