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 And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played; Their thoughts I cannot measure; 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. From heaven if this belief be sent, If such be nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? SIMON LEE, The old Huntsman, with an Incident in which he was concerned. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, No man like him the horn could sound, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers in the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often ere the chase was done He reeled and was stone-blind. 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 ankles, too, are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child; 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, For she, with scanty cause for pride, And though you with your utmost skill Alas! 'tis very little-all Which they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store, For still, the more he works, the more My gentle reader, I perceive, O reader! had you in your mind O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it : It is no tale; but should you think, One summer day I chanced to see |