Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. On their smooth surface, evidence was none: A range of unappropriated earth, Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large: Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld The shining giver of the day diffuse His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land As our enjoyments boundless. From those heights And mossy seats, detained us side by side, With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts "That all the grove and all the day was ours." SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN. IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, A long blue livery coat has he, Yet, meet him where you will, you see Full five-and-twenty years he lived And, though he has but one eye left, No man like him the horn could sound, His Master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead: And he is lean, and he is sick, His ankles too are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young, he little knew Of husbandry or tillage, And now is forced to work, though weak, The weakest in the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race 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, His hunting feats have him hereft Of his right ye, as you may see; And then, what limbs those feats have l 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. 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. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can do between them. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land, he from the heath But what avails the land to 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 Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer day I chanced to see "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee; I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Has oft'ner left me mourning. THE MOTHER'S SONG. HER eyes are wild, her head is bar, She has a Baby on her arm, Or else she were alone ; And underneath the haystack warm, And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. "Sweet Babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad ; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing; Then, lovely Baby, do not fear ! I thee have no fear of me, pray But, safe as in a cradle here, My lovely Baby! thou shalt be: "A fire was once within my brain; |