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, 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, 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; 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, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her husband's side, And though you with your utmost skill Alas! 'tis very little-all Which they can do between them. D 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 What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see The mattock totter'd in his hand; That at the root of the old tree "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 The tears into his eyes were brought, -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds Alas! the gratitude of men FIDELITY. A BARKING Sound the Shepherd hears, He halts and searches with his eyes And now at distance can discern The Dog is not of mountain breed ; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A silent tarn1 below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Thither the rainbow comes-the cloud- Not free from boding thoughts, a while Nor far had gone before he found From those abrupt and perilous rocks He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came ; On which the traveller passed this way. 1 Tarn is a small Mere or Lake, mostly high up in the mountains. |