VII. Thy father cares not for my breast, VIII. Dread not their taunts, my little Life; If his sweet boy he could forsake, IX. I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. -Where art thou gone, my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. X. Oh! smile on me, my little lamb ! SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. Comp. 1798. Pub. 1798. [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, An old Man dwells, a little man,- Full five-and-thirty years he lived 3 1 1827. No man like him the horn could sound, In those proud days, he little cared To blither tasks did Simon rouse I've heard he once was tall. * In edd. 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted :- A long blue livery-coat has he, That's fair behind and fair before; Yet, meet him when you will, you see 1798. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; 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. 1 And he is lean, and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 1 1827. 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, His hunting feats have him bereft In liveried poverty. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now is forced to work, though weak, -The weakest in the village. And he is lean, and he is sick, His little body's half awry, His ankles they are swollen and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; 1820. And now he's forced to work, though weak, |