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, They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. 1798. VII. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. [A BITTER winter it was when these verses were composed by the side of my Sister, in our lodgings at a draper's house in the romantic imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest. In this town the German emperors of the Franconian line were accustomed to keep their court, and it retains vestiges of ancient splendour. So severe was the cold of this winter, that when we passed out of the parlour warmed by the stove, our cheeks were struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a room over a passage which was not ceiled. The people of the house used to say, rather unfeelingly, that they expected I should be frozen to death some night; but, with the protection of a pelisse lined with fur, and a dog's-skin bonnet, such as was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the ramparts, or in a sort of public ground or garden, in which was a pond. Here, I had no companion but a kingfisher, a beautiful creature, that used to glance by me. I consequently became much attached to it. During these walks I composed the poem that follows.] 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! Let me have the song of the kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal. See that Fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat C Alas! how he fumbles about the domains He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed: His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth To the east and the west, to the south and the north; His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No brother, no mate has he near him—while I Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds the clouds. And back to the forests again! 1799. VIII. A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a Statist in the van A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh! Art thou a Man of purple cheer? Or art thou one of gallant pride, Physician art thou? one, all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Shut close the door; press down the latch; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch But who is He, with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew, The outward shows of sky and earth, In common things that round us lie That broods and sleeps on his own heart. VOL. IV. P |