He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled, and was stone-blind.0 totally blind And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change!4?bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried5 poverty. 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 body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.
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;
3. Manager of the hunt and the person in charge change, now thou art gone.' of the hounds. 5. Livery was the uniform worn by the male ser4. Milton's 'Lycidas,' line 37: 'But O the heavy vants of a household.
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SIMON LEE / 247
But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
50 Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is Stouter0 of the two. stronger, sturdier And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them,
55 'Tis very, very little?all That they can do between them.
Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more
60 Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related.
65 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,
70 And you must 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
75 To unearth 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
so 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.
85 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,
90 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
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24 8 / WILLIA M WORDSWORT H 95With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning 1798 1798
We Are Seven1
A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
5 I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
10 And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; ?Her beauty made me glad.
'Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?' 15 'How many? Seven in all,' she said, And wondering looked at me.
'And where are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; And two of us at Conway2 dwell,
20 And two are gone to sea.
I
'Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.'
25 'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.'
