And he is lean and he is sick; Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. 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 labour could not wean them, 'Tis 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, And you must 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 The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavour, 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 Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. 1798. X. 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 See that Fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat 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; How 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 As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again! 1799. |