And he is lean and he is sick; Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. 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, "T is 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; 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, - I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. VII. 1798. 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 A child of the field or the grove; And, sorry for him! the dull, treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 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! The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth north, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! His eyesight and hearing are lost; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost. -- No brother, no mate has he near him, while green summer grass were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above. Yet, God is my witness, thou small, helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer come up from the south, and, with crowds Of thy brethren, a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again! VIII. A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a Statist, in the van A Lawyer art thou? draw not nigh! The keenness of that practised eye, Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 1799. |