This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was mentioned in the poem; and I have, after interval of forty-five years, the image of t old man as fresh before my eyes as if I h seen him yesterday. The expression when t hounds were out, "I dearly love their voice was word for word from his own lips. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, No man like him the horn could sound, In those proud days, he little cared To blither tasks did Simon rouse He all the country could outrun, For when the chiming hounds are out, But, oh the heavy change!— bereft Old Simon to the world is left His Master's dead, - and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; And he is lean and he is sick; Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, serap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her Husband's side, And, though you with your utmost skill 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 your mind O Reader! had you in What more I have to say is short, One summer-day I chanced to see The mattock tottered in his hand; "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, The tears into his eyes were brought, 50 60 70 80 90 Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook fell down a sloping rock so as to make a waterfall considerable for that country, and across the pool below had fallen a tree, an ash if I rightly remember, from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy which waved gently in the breeze that might poetically speaking be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty years, this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty. 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 green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made The budding twigs spread out their fan, If this belief from heaven be sent, TO MY SISTER 1798. 1798 Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May, 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed. It is the first mild day of March: Edward will come with you; and, pray. No joyless forms shall regulate We from to-day, my Friend, will date Love, now a universal birth, From earth to man, from man to earth: - It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Our minds shall drink at every pore Some silent laws our hearts will make, And from the blessed power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. 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. "A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BE HIND THE HILL" 1798. 1800 Observed in the holly-grove at Alfox where these verses were written in the sprin 1799. I had the pleasure of again seeing, dear friends, this grove in unimpaired bea forty-one years after. A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Of tallest hollies, tall and green; From year to year the spacious floor |