Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and played; The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, XIII. SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, A long blue livery coat has he, 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, 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 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead : And he is lean and he is sick, When he was young, he little knew And now is forced to work, though weak, He all the country could outrun, And still there's something in the world For when the chiming hounds are out, 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. 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 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 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; "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, And thanks and praises seemed to run 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. XIV. ANDREW JONES. "I HATE that Andrew Jones, he'll breed I said not this because he loves For this poor crawling, helpless wretch Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground, It chanced that Andrew passed that way He stooped and took the penny up: And hence, I say, that Andrew's boys XV. In the school of - is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been schoolmasters there since the foundation of the school, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines. Ir nature, for a favourite child Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame Cypher and syllable-thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name. Pause, with no common sympathy. And if a sleeping tear should wake, Poor Matthew-all his frolics o'er- Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! XVI. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. We walked along, while bright and red 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. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the streaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun ; Then, from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop, And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, |