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.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

XIII.

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,-
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is threescore and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;

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,
His cheek is like a cherry.

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
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 dwindled body's half awry;
His ancles 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,
He dearly loves their voices !

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,
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 avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer ?

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
How patiently you've waited,
And I'm afraid that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle reader! you would find
A tale in everything.

What more I have to say is short,
I hope you'll kindly take it:
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

"You're overtasked," good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And, at the word, rightly gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor old man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,

And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought

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
His children up to waste und pillage:
I wish the press-gang or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come
And sweep him from the village."

I said not this because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he has done,
A friendless man, a travelling cripple,

For this poor crawling, helpless wretch
Some horseman, who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor cripple was alone,
And could not stoop-no help was nigh.

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground,
For it had long been droughty weather:
So with his staff the cripple wrought
Among the dust, till he had brought
The halfpennies together.

It chanced that Andrew passed that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.

He stooped and took the penny up:
And when the cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew: Under half a crown,
What a man finds is all his own;
And so, my friend, good day to you.”

And hence, I say, that Andrew's boys
Will all be trained to waste and pillage:
And wished the press-gang or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come
And sweep him from the village.

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
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o'er these lines; and then review
This tablet, that thus humbly rears

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,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Matthew a request I make,
Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Matthew-all his frolics o'er-
Is silent as a standing pool;

Far from the chimney's merry roar,
And murmur of the village school.

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up-
He felt with spirit so profound.

Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!
Thou happy soul! and can it be
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?

XVI.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

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,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop,

And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply: