She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breathed again : And, coming to the Banks of Tone, The engines of her pain, the tools The vernal leaves-she loved them still; Which had been done to her. A Barn her winter bed supplies; But, till the warmth of summer skies (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray ! Be broken down and old: Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, If she is prest by want of food, And there she begs at one steep place That oaten pipe of hers is mute, This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, I, too, have passed her on the hills By spouts and fountains wild- Farewell! and when thy days are told, Thy corpse shall buried be, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. 1799 CIV SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED In the sweet shire of Cardigan, An old Man dwells, a little man,— 'Tis said he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry ; And still the centre of his cheek No man like him the horn could sound, When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, And still there's something in the world For when the chiming hounds are out, But, oh the heavy change !-bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. 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 body, dwindled and awry, 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, Upon the village Common. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; Oft, working by her Husband's side, And, though you with your utmost skill '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 My gentle Reader, I perceive O Reader! had you in your mind |