"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

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"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"

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'T was throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven ! "

SIMON LEE

THE OLD HUNTSMAN; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH
HE WAS CONCERNED.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,
"T is said he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
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,
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,

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He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change! - bereft

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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,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;

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My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind

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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,
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
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
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.

ee

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'You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool," to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.

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I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning.

1798.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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To her fair works did Nature link

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The human soul that through me fan;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 't is my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure : —

But the least motion which they made

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It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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.

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