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;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.

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.

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⚫30

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

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

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70

75

He might have worked for ever.

80

"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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90

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning ;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning.

95

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.

To her fair works did Nature link

5

The human soul that through me ran;

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
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.

IO

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20

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

1798.

TO MY SISTER.

IT is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

5

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('t is a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; — and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar :

We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

10

15

20

Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth :

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,

With speed put on your woodland dress ;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

ee

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

40

1798.