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 reel'd and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world. At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices.
But O 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.
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, 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 avails the land to them 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.
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 everything.
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 totter'd in his hand; So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree
He might have work'd for ever.
'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool,' to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid.
I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd,
At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavour'd.
The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seem'd to run So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.
STERN Daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free,
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not: O! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright
And happy will our nature be When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet find that other strength according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul
Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy controul, But in the quietness of thought:
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name; I long for a repose tha. ever is the same.
Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
O let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT
SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly plann'd To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
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