His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; IX. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. I must apprise the reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms. A FIG for your languages, German and Norse! - And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; The weather in 'forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough; Here's a fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps And, sorrow for him! this 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, and the south and the north; See his spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No brother, no friend has he near him—while I As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing' 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. It is the first mild day of March, There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Edward will come with you; and pray, 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, We for the year to come may take And from the blessèd power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: Then come, my sister! come, I pray, XI. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR child of nature, let them rail ! A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see 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, 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, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did nature link Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopped and played; The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, XIIL SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED In the sweet shire of Cardigan, A long blue livery coat has he, Full five-and-twenty years he lived And, though he has but one eye left, No man like him the horn could sound, His master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead: 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 For when the chiming hounds are out, His hunting feats have him bereft, |