Where as the azure sky appear'd
Through bowers of every varying form,
'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.
How would each sweeping pond'rous bough
Resist, when straight the whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strength'ning eddies through
A roaring wilderness of leaves!
How would the prone descending shower
From the green canopy rebound!
How would the lowland torrents pour!
How deep the pealing thunder sound!
But peace was there: no lightnings blazed :
No clouds obscured the face of Heaven:
Down each green op'ning while I gazed
My thoughts to home, and you, were given.
O tender minds! in life's gay morn
Some clouds must dim your coming day:
Yet bootless pride and falshood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.
Now, at the dark wood's stately side,
Well pleased I met the sun again;
Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide!
My seat was destined to the main :
For many an oak lay stretched at length,
Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheathed)
Had reach'd their full meridian strength
Before your father's father breathed!
Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy:
Then, groaning, o'er the adverse wave
Bring home the flag of victory.
Go, then, proud oaks: we meet no more;
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,----
The white cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud ocean's swelling tide.
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.
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-
He is the sole survivor.
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!
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!
But he is lean, and he is sick,
His body dwindled half away;
His ankles too are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
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 door 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.
|