His hunting feats have him bereft

Of his right eye, as you may see :

And then, what limbs those feats have left old Simon Lee!

To poor

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,
Not twenty paces from the door,

A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;

But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life has he in store,

As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

His

poor old ancles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect
Some tale will be related.

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,

I hope you'll kindly take it:

It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale
you 'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see

This Old Man doing all he could

About the root of an old tree,

A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered 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 Lee,

Give me your tool," to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor Old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,

And thanks and praises seemed to run

So fast out of his heart, I thought

They never would have done.

-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning.

Alas! the gratitude of men

Has oftener left me mourning.

The NIGHTINGALE.

Written in April, 1798.

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.