X.

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;

Their thoughts I cannot measure :

But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

XI.

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;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry.

Worn out by hunting feats

bereft

By time of friends and kindred, see!

Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty.

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.

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 he is lean and he is sick,

His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ancles 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," saith he, "avails the land, Which I 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.

And, though you with your utmost skill

From labour could not wean them,

Alas! 'tis

little. very

-

all

Which 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 ancles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,

And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.