He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race 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, He dearly loves their voices ! 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 But what avails the land to them, Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more And I'm afraid that you expect O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see 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 worked for ever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Leo, Give me your tool" to him I said I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning. Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftner left me mourning. LINES Written in early Spring. I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did nature link |