What could I do, unaided and unblest? My Father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, Ill was I then for toil or service fit: With tears whose course no effort could confine, Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. I led a wandering life among the fields; Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth, Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: And now across this moor my steps I bend― Oh! tell me whither -for no earthly friend Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away, As if because her tale was at an end She wept ;-because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 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 periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there, If I these thoughts may not prevent, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, With an incident in which he was concerned. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty. |