What could I do, unaided and unblest? 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, And now across this moor my steps I bend- 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, 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: But the least motion which they made, 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, 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, Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty. |