Till summer comes up from the south, and with crowds

Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds And back to the forests again!

X.

LINES

WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED.

Ir is the first mild day of March,
Each minute sweeter than before;
The red breast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; and

pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress;

And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth:

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may 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 pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
-And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

XI.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE

COUNTRY.

DEAR child of nature, let them rail!
-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold,

Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see

Thy own delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd-boy,

As if thy heritage were joy,

And pleasure were thy trade,

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,

Shalt show us how divine a thing

A woman may be made,

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

XIL

LINES,

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played ;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

XIII.

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

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 ancles 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 bereft,

Of his right eye, as you may see;

And then, what limbs those feats have left

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.

O reader! had you in your mind
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, rightly 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.

XIV.

ANDREW JONES.

"I HATE that Andrew Jones, he'll breed
His children up to waste und pillage:
I wish the press-gang or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come
And sweep him from the village."

I said not this because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he has done,
A friendless man, a travelling cripple.