There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain ;

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace, - a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there 's no envy, there's so much of joy;

And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there;
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your

heart;

And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind, happy creature as he.

1800.

V.

TO MY SISTER.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! (t is a wish of mine,)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; — and, pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth:

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,

Which they shall long obey:

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my

Sister! come, I pray,

With speed put on your woodland dress;

And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

VI.

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN:

1798.

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, "T is said he once was tall.

Full five-and-thirty years he lived

A running huntsman merry;
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 O the heavy change! bereft

Of health, strength, 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.

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
Inclosed 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.

And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them,

"T is 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.