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Hers is now another part:

While riding near her home one stormy night | She hath neither wish nor heart,
A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.

Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,
To bear it with me through the stormy night:
And, as before, it shone without dismay;
Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

When to the dwelling of my Love I came,
I went into the Orchard quietly;
And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name,
Laid safely by itself, beneath a Tree.

The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped
with fear;

At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the
Tree:

I led my Lucy to the spot: Look here!
Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!

INCIDENT,

A loving Creature she, and brave!
And fondly strives her struggling Friend to

save.

From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say!
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears,
Him alone she sees and hears,
Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no

more.

TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG.

LIB here sequestered:-be this little mound
For ever thine, and be it holy ground!
Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath the covering of the common earth!

CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG, WHICH It is not from unwillingness to praise,

BELONGED TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

On his morning-rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath Comrades in his walk;
Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent and two for speed.

See, a Hare before him started!
-Off they fly in earnest chace;
Every Dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race!

And the Hare whom they pursue
Hath an instinct what to do;

Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the River takes.

Deep the River was, and crusted
Thinly by a one-night's frost;
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,

Or want of love, that here no Stone we
raise:
More thou deserv'st; but this Man gives to
Man,

Brother to Brother, this is all we can.
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee

dear

Shall find thee through all changes of the
year:

This Oak points out thy grave; the silent
Tree

Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

I prayed for thee, and that thy end were past;

And willingly have laid thee here at last:
For thou hadst lived, till every thing that
cheers

In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
Thy cars were deaf; and feeble were thy
knees,-

I saw thee stagger in the summer-breeze,
Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.
It came, and we were glad; yet tears were
shed;

Breaks--and the Greyhound, Dart, is over Both Man and Woman wept when Thou

head!

Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW-
See them cleaving to the sport!
Music has no heart to follow,
Little Music, she stops short.

wert dead;

Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household-thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;

But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,

Found scarcely any where in like degree!

For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,
Best gift of God, in thee was most intense;
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw
The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law :-
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came,
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured
name!

FIDELITY.

A BARKING Sound the Shepherd hears,
A cry as of a Dog or Fox;
He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a Dog is seen
Glancing from that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain-breed ;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in Hollow or on Height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the Creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,

From trace of human foot or hand.

There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The Crags repeat the Raven's croak,
In symphony austere;

Thither the Rainbow comes-the Cloud-
And Mists that spread the flying shroud;
And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,
But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground,
The appaled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.

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I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed, from day to day,

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;

But thee I now would serve more strictly,He is the sole survivor. if I may.

Though no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought,
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires ;
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we any thing so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
And the most ancient Heavens through Thee
are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh! let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

And he is lean and he is sick,
His dwindled body's half awry;
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.

When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;

And now is 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 his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

Of his right eye, as you may see;
His hunting feats have him bereft
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,

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let And does what Simon cannot do;

me live!

SIMON LEE

THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from the pleasant Ivor-hall,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is threee score and ten,
But others say he's eighty,

A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
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.

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
Do his weak ancles swell.
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And I'm afraid that you expect
Some tale will be related.

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'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of mornOf the fields, he collected that bloom, when You lift up your eyes!-and I guess that

'mid the joy

a boy;

There fashioned that countenance, which, in spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will

remain.

you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the
shame;

In him it was scarcely a business of art,
For this he did all in the ease of his heart.

To London-a sad emigration I weenWith his gray hairs he went from the brook and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a Crow on the sands.

All trades, as needs was, did old Adam

assume,

Served as Stable-boy, Errand-boy, Porter, and Groom;

But nature is gracious, necessity kind, And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,

He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;

Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

'Mid coaches and chariots, a Waggon of Straw Like a magnet the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream.

Up the Hay-market-hill he oft whistles his way, Thrusts his hands in the Waggon, and smells at the hay:

You would say that each hair of his beard He thinks of the fields he so often hath

mown,

was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. And is happy as if the rich freight were his

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely But chiefly to

goes

About work that he knows in a track that he knows;

But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body must stir.

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If you pass by at

own.

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morning you'll meet with

The breath of the
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury-·
Vale.

Cows you may see him
him there;
inhale,

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