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Our minds shall drink at every pore
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
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
THE OLD HUNTSMAN:
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry ;
Is red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
In those proud days, he little cared
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,
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
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;
One prop he has, and only one:
His wife, an aged woman,
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
From labor could not wean them,
'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
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,
It is no tale; but, should you think,
One summer-day I chanced to see
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavor,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.
"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
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY,
ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.
The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse!
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
See that Fly,
a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorry for him! the dull, treacherous heat