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Written at a small distance from my house and sent by my little boy to the
person to whom they are
IT is the first mild day of March:
There is a blessing in the air,
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
My Sister! 'tis a wish of mine,
Edward will come with you, and
Put on with speed your woodland dress,
No joyless forms shall regulate
We from to day, my friend, will date
Love, now and 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
About, below, above;
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.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.
IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
Full five and twenty years he lived
A running huntsman inerry;
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
His master's dead, and no one now
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
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 water-fall,
Upon the village common.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
-The weakest in the village.
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
For when the chiming hounds are out,
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
For she, not over stout of limb,
And though you with your utmost skill
Which they can do between them.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Few months of life has he in store,
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more