Till summer comes up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds And back to the forests again! X. LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED. Ir is the first mild day of March, There is a blessing in the air, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day No joyless forms shall regulate We from to-day, my friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: -It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey; We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: Then come, my sister! come, I pray, XI. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR child of nature, let them rail! A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see Thy own delightful days, and be A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, As if thy heritage were joy, And pleasure were thy trade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made, Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, A melancholy slave; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. XIL LINES, WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did nature link Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopped and played ; The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, XIII. SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, A long blue livery coat has he, Full five-and-twenty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And, though he has but one eye left, No man like him the horn could sound, To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee. His master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead : And he is lean and he is sick, When he was young, he little knew And now is forced to work, though weak, He all the country could outrun, And still there's something in the world For when the chiming hounds are out, His hunting feats have him bereft, Of his right eye, as you may see; And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee! He has no son, he has no child; His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common. Old Ruth works out of doors with him, And does what Simon cannot do ; For she, not over stout of limb Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can do between them. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath 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, One summer day I chanced to see The mattock tottered in his hand; "You're overtasked," good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning, Alas! the gratitude of men Has oft'ner left me mourning. XIV. ANDREW JONES. "I HATE that Andrew Jones, he'll breed I said not this because he loves |