Of winter, and protect that pleasant place.
Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs,
Track leading into track; how marked, how worn
Into bright verdure, among fern and gorse,
Winding away its never-ending line

On their smooth surface, evidence was none:
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt,

A range of unappropriated earth,

Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large: Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld

The shining giver of the day diffuse

His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires,

As our enjoyments boundless. From those heights
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs;
Where arbours of impenetrable shade,

And mossy seats, detained us side by side,

With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts

"That all the grove and all the day was ours."

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

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 ankles 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 hereft

Of his right ye, as you may see;

And then, what limbs those feats have l

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.

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, right 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.

THE MOTHER'S SONG.

HER eyes are wild, her head is bar,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from o'er the main.

She has a Baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone ;

And underneath the haystack warm,

And on the greenwood stone,

She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet Babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad ; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing; Then, lovely Baby, do not fear ! I thee have no fear of me, pray

But, safe as in a cradle here,

My lovely Baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

"A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain ;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy ;
It came at once to do me good ;
I waked, and saw my little Boy,
My little Boy of flesh and blood;