And still there's something in the world For when the chiming hounds are out, 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 waterfall, Upon the village common. Old Ruth works out of doors with him, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill Which they can do between them. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 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 My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, O reader! had you in your mind A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer day I chanced to see The mattock totter'd in his hand; That at the root of the old tree 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 Alas! the gratitude of men ANDREW JONES. "I HATE that Andrew Jones, he'll breed I said not this because he loves It chanced that Andrew pass'd that way He stoop'd and took the penny up: N And hence, I say, that Andrew's boys In the school of is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been schoolmasters there since the foundation of the school, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines. IF nature, for a favourite child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame Cypher and syllable-thine eye Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, And if a sleeping tear should wake, Poor Matthew-all his frolics o'er- Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, A village schoolmaster was he, And on that morning, through the grass, We travell'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun ; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop, Upon the eastern mountain-top, "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left 'And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother. "With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, coming to the church, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang; she would have been A very nightingale ! "Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seem'd, than till that day "And, turning from her grave, I met, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet "A basket on her head she bare; "No fountain from its rocky care "There came from me a sigh of pain I look'd at her, and look'd again, Matthew is in his grave; yet now, As at that moment, with his bough THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. WE talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, We lay beneath a spreading oak, And from the turf a fountain broke, "Now, Matthew! let us try to match This water's pleasant tune With some old border song, or catch, That suits a summer's noon. "Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, "Down to the vale this water steers; How merrily it goes! "Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay "My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. "Thus fares it still in our decay; And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away |