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.

"Your overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the right word 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.

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY

The reader must be apprised that the Stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the kettle;

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force

On this dreary dull plate of dark metal.

See that fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove ;

And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ !

He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the north,
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no mate has he near him, while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain

Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds,

And back to the forests again!

A POET'S EPITAPH

ART thou a statesman in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
First learn to love one living man;
Then mayst thou think upon the dead

A lawyer art thou? draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A soldier and no man of chaff?
Welcome! but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? one, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!

A moralist perchance appears;

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears;

Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;

A reasoning, self-sufficient thing,

An intellectual all-in-all!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

Nor lose ten ticklings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is he, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,—

The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both man and boy,
Hath been an idler in the land ;
Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.

TO THE DAISY

BRIGHT flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,

And all the long year through the heir

Of joy and sorrow;

Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,

Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!

Is it that man is soon deprest?

A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason,

And thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind

And every season?

Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;

Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.

In the school of

MATTHEW

is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been schoolmasters there since the foundation of the school, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite to onc of those names the author wrote the following lines.

IF Nature, for a favourite child,
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Yet never once doth go astray,