SIMON LEE. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath But what avails the land to them, Few months of life has he in store, For still, the more he works, the more My gentle reader! I perceive O reader! had you in your mind A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, 133 R One summer day I chanced to see "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee; I struck, and with a single blow The tears into his eyes were brought, I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning. WORDSWORTH. MY PICTURE. 135 MY PICTURE. STAND this way-more near the window- Thus I see it while I write ! Who the head may be I know not, With a look half sad, half stately, Grave sweet eyes and glowing hair. Little care I who the painter, How obscure a name he bore; As it is, I would not give it Many a time, when to my garret It has seemed to look a welcome That has made my poor room bright. Many a time, when ill and sleepless, Till it faded in my dream. When dark days have come, and friendship Sometimes, when hard need has pressed me I have read stern words of counsel Nothing that brain imagined, Or my weary hand has wrought, It has smiled on my successes, Do you wonder that my Picture Has become so like a friend?— PROCTER. |