No man like him the horn could sound, 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 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: 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, Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed 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 ancles swell. My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And I'm afraid that you expect O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, I hope you'll kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see 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 I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor Old Man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning. Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning. XIV. ANDREW JONES. I HATE that Andrew Jones : he'll breed I said not this, because he loves For this poor crawling helpless wretch |