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Edward will come with you ;-and, pray,
No joyless forms shall regulate
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth :
-It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
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
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.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.
[THIS old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, "I dearly love their voice," was word for word from his own lips.]
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
No man like him the horn could sound,
In those proud days, he little cared
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
He all the country could outrun,
And still there's something in the world
For when the chiming hounds are out,
But, oh 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;
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ;
One prop he has, and only one,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
This scrap of land he from the heath
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
And, though you with your utmost skill
'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
My gentle Reader, I perceive
O Reader! had you in your mind
What more I have to say is short,
One summer-day I chanced to see
The mattock tottered in his hand;
That at the root of the old tree
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
I struck, and with a single blow
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
Hath oftener left me mourning.