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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
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?
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
With an incident in which he was concerned.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
Full five-and-twenty years he lived
A running Huntsman merry ;
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee ;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His Master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, Dogs, and Horses, all are dead ;
He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His dwindled 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.
At which bis heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!